Harry Potter: Hero of the Wizarding World?
by JK Pratchett
Summary: An aged Harry reveals the scandalous truth about his youthful exploits. Read how a lying, womanising coward became the hero of the magical world. Rated M for language and sexual content. Title changed to comply with website's guidelines.
1. The truth

_It would be most unwise for us to disclose how this document came into our possession but we can assure you that it is completely genuine. We have resisted the urge to censor the more libellous or offensive passages and confined our task as editors to dividing the text into subtitled sections._

_We have rated the document 'M' for the adult language, sexual content and unprecedented level of bastardly behaviour contained within. _

Chapter 1 – The truth

I, Harry James Potter (Order of Merlin, First Class), former Minister for Magic, Head of the Auror Department, Chief Warlock of the Wizengammot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. In doing so I choose to break the habit of a lifetime: a lifetime as a coward, a liar, a cheat and a total bastard.

Does that surprise you? You will not be alone. Very few wizards know the truth about me, and hardly any Muggles. All they know about me is what I fed them in those saccharine children's books. Had to bowdlerise them like mad, of course. Couldn't have the little tikes reading about how I _really _discovered the Chamber of Secrets, or any of the other scandalous details of my youth. Still, they made a nice little earner for my retirement. The exchange rate between Muggle and wizarding currency isn't as bad as you'd think. I didn't even have to give that Muggle woman a cut. The Imperius Curse can be a wonderful tool.

Where was I? Ah yes: my true story. As you have probably realised by now, I am not (and never was) the clean-cut, wide-eyed, sanctimonious little pain-in-the-arse you find in my books. Not that I have advertised this fact, of course. In the wizarding world I'm a bloody hero. Do you have any idea how many poor buggers were named Harry after the Second War? Thousands! Most people take my reputation at face value and assume that all my exploits were true. Some of them are, but most of the time I was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. My career has been built on my fabulous skills as a liar, my willingness to cheat and manipulate to get what I want and, most of all, taking the credit for the work of better wizards and witches.

So why break my silence now, you ask? Why not take my secrets to the grave, in the knowledge that posterity will remember me as the greatest wizard of the last century? A few reasons. First, secrets are heavy on the soul and I carry some very weighty secrets indeed. It is my hope that writing these memoirs will lift the load a little. Second, I am too old to care anymore. I am reaching the end of the Elixir of Life that I swiped off that old fool Dumbledore. I don't suppose that I have many months of natural life left, not when the Firewhisky and the cigars and the general hell-raising finally catch up with me. And third, even if this does enter the public eye, no one will ever believe it. Wizards will decry it as a hoax and Muggles will simply assume it to be the work of some geeks with too much time on their hands.

It is very easy for Muggles to disbelieve in things. They don't believe in magic, despite all the evidence to the contrary. It is a testimony to the skill of the wizarding community that we have created a culture that actively encourages its members to dismiss anything that does not conform to their worldview. We used to have the very devil of a job hiding ourselves before we came up with the idea of the Enlightenment. Hume, Kant, Locke, Rousseau: some of the finest minds in the history of wizardry. They were so successful that you can now cast a spell right in front of your average Muggle and they will instantly use that feat of mental gymnastics they call 'rationalisation' to dismiss it, rather than face the simple truth that it _was_ magic!

Where was I? Ah yes, my story. You already know how it began: orphaned before my first birthday and dumped on my aunt and uncle's doorstep by the chief prig of the magical world, Albus Dumbledore. Oh yes, that bit is true. The Dark Lord Voldemort murdered my parents and tried to do me in as well but the curse backfired, obliterating him and leaving me with my legendary scar. That scar alone has got me more action than anything I have ever said or done. I never did thank him for that.

Don't misunderstand me: I have done some pretty bad things in my time, but I've never been a Dark wizard. Never even been tempted. Oh I'll bully and manipulate and lie to get what I want, but even a bastard has standards. Torturing people to death just because of who their parents happened to be? It just isn't Quidditch.

So there I was, orphaned and thrust into the unwilling arms of my aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley. A greater pair of spiteful, unpleasant bores never drew breath. They were so painfully middle class that they wouldn't break wind in their own bathroom for fear of what the neighbours might think. But for the potential scandal, they would probably have drowned me in the river like an unwanted pet, knowing that I was both a wizard and an in-law. I'm still not sure which they resented more. As it was they kept me and raised me alongside their equally odious son Dudley, who looked like a blancmange and had the brains to match.

The first seven years of my life were pretty dreadful; sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, half portions for dinner, hand-me-down clothes, getting beaten up by Dudley. A regular Cinderella upbringing. I am sure Aunt Petunia would have put me to work scrubbing floors, given time. As it was she never had the chance.

It was Dudley's eighth birthday and my aunt and uncle were taking him on a day trip to London Zoo. Unable to foist me on the old bat that lived next door (as they usually did), they were forced to take me along too.

"Just keep quiet," Uncle Vernon warned me as we climbed out of the car, "And don't walk too close. We don't want people to think you're with us."

It did occur to me to point out that I might not look quite so odd if they say, allowed me out of the house more often, fed me properly and bought me clothes that actually fit, but I decided against it.

Dudley did not have the capacity to appreciate the beauty of the animals, or the patience to wait for them to do something entertaining. I do not think he understood the difference between a zoo and a circus.

"Why won't it roar?" he demanded, stamping his foot and gesturing at a lion snoozing contentedly in the midday sun.

"It's just having a nap, Duddykins. Maybe if you wait…" Aunt Petunia's explanation tailed off into silence as Dudley raced away towards another, potentially livelier exhibit. So the day passed, with Dudley charging back and forth with his parents following in his wake. I followed them as slowly as I could. Uncle Vernon was getting more and more frustrated with Dudley and when that happened I was the one who got it in the neck. Heaven forbid that darling Dudders should ever be in trouble…

Dudley finally slowed down in the Reptile House, not because the exhibits were any livelier but because it was crowded and we were forced to shuffle along between the rows of glass tanks. I have always hated reptiles; I am scared witless by them. I tried to wait outside but Uncle Vernon was looking for a scapegoat and dragged me through the doors.

"I want to keep you where I can see you," he growled.

It was uncomfortably humid in the Reptile House. I slunk along, head down, trying to avoid attracting Uncle Vernon's attention. Dudley at last found something that appealed to him: a keeper feeding live mice to a tank of rattlesnakes. I was forced to wait while he watched the 'show', hooting triumphantly as each mouse was snapped up. Quite a crowd gathered and I was pushed up against a tank containing the biggest damn snake I had ever seen: a boa constrictor, ten feet long and as thick as a lamppost.

"Horrid thing," I muttered. I tried to move away from the glass but there were too many people. I glanced back at the snake. It was looking straight at me. A snake does not have a very expressive face, but I felt sure this one was looking at me almost inquisitively.

"Are you… are you looking at me?" I stammered. The snake nodded.

I leapt a good two feet into the air, squealing like a kettle and displaying my usual courage and reserve:

"Aaargh! Get away! Get away from me, you brute! Help! He-e-elp!"

I tried to push through the crowd but they just stared at me. I turned to look back. The snake looked hurt.

"Go away!" I shrieked, waving my arms at it. Suddenly the glass front vanished and the snake, all ten feet of it, leapt into the air as if a bomb had gone off underneath it. It span over the heads of the crowd and landed on top of Dudley, bearing him to the ground. Dudley yelled even louder than I had. Uncle Vernon roared and Aunt Petunia fainted. The crowd began screaming and stampeded for the exit. I caught a glimpse of the boa constrictor slithering along between their legs. What happened to it I don't know. I don't think it was ever recaptured.

The keepers questioned Uncle Vernon about what had happened, as the only conscious adult left in the building, but he only answered with insults and threats:

"Rank incompetence… Public menace… Faulty glass… Shoddy workmanship… Should sue you all to hell and back!"

Both Dudley and Aunt Petunia were too shaken to carry on with the visit so, as soon as Petunia could walk unsupported, we headed back to the car park. There Uncle Vernon turned on me. Pinning me up against the car door, he lowered his face until it was inches from mine.

"I know you had something to do with that snake, boy," he snarled, "I don't know _how_ you did it but you set that… that _monster_ on your cousin!"

I can see him now: the red, jowly face filling my vision; spittle dribbling out of the corner of his mouth; the glimmer of fear in those dark, swinish eyes. I saw the fear and I knew what I had to do.

"Yeah, I did," I said, as calm as you like. That stumped him. He had expected pleas, denials; not an admission.

"You what?" he said.

"I set the snake on Dudley," I said, "And that's not all I can do."

The colour drained from Uncle Vernon's face so fast it was like a tap had been opened in his neck: from red, to pink, to ashen white. I kept my face as calm and as serious as I could and tried to suppress the tremors that were running through my whole body. Inside, though, I was grinning. The Dursleys were mine.

I was bluffing like mad, of course. I had no more idea what had happened than Uncle Vernon did. It never occurred to me that I had performed magic, even inadvertent. All I knew was that Uncle Vernon was frightened; frightened of me and of what I might be able to do. As long as I could convince the Dursleys that I had more control over my 'powers' than I actually had, they would live in terror of me.

It didn't happen overnight, of course. They were afraid of me now but I had to feed that fear. I don't think they truly believed that I could do magic until I turned all of Uncle Vernon's hair a brilliant blue just by staring at him. After that, it was simple. A lot of bluffing and the occasional fake magical incident (easy enough to do; they were very gullible) was all that was needed. No more sleeping in a cupboard for Harry. I got Dudley's bedroom and he was forced to decamp to the spare room. I had first pick of the portions at meal times; the finest clothes; anything and everything I wanted.

At the age of eleven I was packed off to Uncle Vernon's old school, Smeltings, as a boarder. My aunt and uncle did consider trying to enrol me at St. Brutus's Academy for Incurably Criminal Boys but I was eavesdropping on their conversation. At breakfast the next morning, I gave them the shock of their life.

"Uncle Vernon," I said, very casually, "I don't think I would like St. Brutus's."

Uncle Vernon turned white and nearly spilt his coffee.

"W-what did you say?"

If he had had an ounce of brains, he would have realised that I had been eavesdropping on his private conversations and given me a clip round the ear but, when people suspect that you have magic powers, they automatically assume that you have been reading their thoughts or some such nonsense. I was more than happy to play on this.

"You've been talking about sending me to St. Brutus's," I said, fixing him with my best 'piercing stare', "I don't _want _to go to St. Brutus's."

"B-but…"

"I want to go to Smeltings, with Dudley," I said, in the same deadpan tone, "You will send me to Smeltings, won't you Uncle?"

I tell you, Damien had nothing on me.

So Smeltings it was and I am sure my Aunt and Uncle were mighty glad to get rid of me for three months at a stretch. For myself, I had never had so much fun in my life. One public demonstration of my 'powers' was all that was needed to place me exactly where I wanted to be in the school pecking order.

To begin with, of course, I was right at the bottom: a first former, short, skinny, with glasses (albeit highly fashionable ones) and not particularly talented at sports. In my second week I was jumped by a gang of fifth formers on my way back to the dorms and bundled off to the toilets for the traditional Smeltings 'baptism'. This charming ritual involves holding the unfortunate boy by his ankles and ceremonially dunking his head into each of the twelve lavatory bowls. If the boy is lucky, the said bowls have been emptied beforehand. If not, well there is a shop in the village that sells very large bottles of shampoo. All part of the great British public school tradition.

I have never been one to bow meekly to tradition. I latched hold to one of the sink units, bawling my lungs out, as six of the brutes tried to haul me into the first cubicle. They won and I was dragged, my heels skidding on the wet tiles, towards my 'baptism'. They were just about to turn me upside down when I felt the twinge; the powerful wrenching in my gut that I had come to associate with manifestations of my 'power'. I ceased my wailing and said, as calmly as I could manage:

"Put me down. Now."

The older boys paused, exchanging puzzled looks. They were used to pleas, screams, even threats from their victims, not this calm, almost eerie confidence. Their hesitation did not last. The leader of the gang, a boy named Smithers who resembled a poorly-shaved gorilla, cuffed me round the head and urged his fellows to get on with it. Two of them seized my ankles and were just about to turn me upside down when the toilet bowl gave a shake.

That made them pause. The toilet shook again. There was a skittering sound, of tiny claws scrabbling over porcelain, and the biggest black rat you ever saw poked its nose over the rim of the seat. It sniffed the air for a moment, slipped down to the floor and made a dash for the door. Some of older boys yelped as it passed between their legs but Smithers was made of sterner stuff.

"You poofs!" he snarled, "It's only a bloody rat!"

The toilet bowl gave another shake, more violent than the last. It began to tremble. The seat rattled up and down like a pair of chattering teeth. Suddenly, a wave of black rats was vomited out of the bowl. Dozens of them, black as sin and big as cats, came pouring out of the toilet. The older boys shrieked and fled before the tide of rodents but I stood my ground. I knew how important it was to capitalise on this moment.

"Go, my minions!" I cried, thrusting my arms towards the fleeing fifth formers, "Go, I command you, and _wreak my vengeance_!"

And that was that. The story went through Smeltings faster than a dose of clap through a Quidditch team. Naturally it became embellished with the telling, and soon I was credited with inflicting all manner outlandish torments on my victims. I did not care. I was now feared at school as well as at home; a fear I gleefully fed with rumour mongering and some carefully staged 'incidents'.

Soon I had the whole institution wrapped around my little finger. The toughs did my bidding out of fear of my 'powers'. I used them to form a protection racket among the younger boys, taking a weekly toll in sweets and tuck money. The nerds and swots I intimidated into doing my homework for me. That, combined with some judicious cheating in the exam hall, ensured my popularity with the teachers. Oh, I was living the high life indeed: hardly any work to do, and almost all my time devoted to fun and mischief. As I grew older I took up smoking, more to maintain my image as a rebel than a genuine liking for it, and regularly led parties of my cronies down to the local off-licence to acquire cheap booze. And while I paid very little attention to my academic studies, the sixth form girls at Smeltings's sister school gave me some very valuable lessons in practical biology.

This state of affairs continued until the morning of my sixteenth birthday, when I received a most unwelcome letter. I was sitting at the kitchen table at Privet Drive, it being the summer holidays, when Uncle Vernon brought the post in. Among my numerous birthday cards there was an envelope of yellow parchment, sealed with red wax, and addressed to _Mr H. Potter, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. _You are probably familiar with its content:

_HOGWARTS COLLEGE OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts College of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

By the by, you may be wondering why I received this letter on my _sixteenth_ birthday and not my _eleventh_, as in my novels. The answer is quite simple: not even the wizarding community, a community so asinine that they elected Cornelius Fudge as Minister for Magic, would be so stupid as to give pubescent children magic wands. Combining teenage hormones with the power to unravel the very fabric of the cosmos scarcely bears thinking about. Besides that obvious drawback, wizarding children need a basic education just like Muggle children: it's no use having the power to brew a magic potion if you don't have the maths to follow the recipe. So students at Hogwarts College begin at sixteen. I reduced it to eleven because I was writing for the children's market (much more lucrative) and you have to give the little tykes a hero they can identify with; hence, my fictional self starting magic school at eleven.

My true self, receiving this letter on my sixteenth birthday, was in a terrible state. On the one hand, it finally explained my strange 'powers'; I already had my suspicions but this letter confirmed it. I was a wizard and I had been unwittingly performing magic. On the other hand, I recognised this for the terrible news that it was. At Smeltings, my magic had made me omnipotent. There, I was extraordinary. Now these people expected me to enrol in a school for young witches and wizards. I would no longer be extraordinary. Everybody there, from the cleaner right up to the headmaster, would be able to perform magic. I would be ordinary; a nobody. I saw my life of luxurious idling slipping away before my eyes.

My first solution was the simplest: take the letter into the back garden and burn it. That was successful… for about twenty four hours. The next morning, two identical letters dropped onto the welcome mat at Privet Drive. I burnt these without even opening them. The next day, three letters arrived. The more I burned, the more came. I had Uncle Vernon nail the letter slot shut, only for dozens of letters to come flying down the chimney. They started turning up everywhere: in my bedroom, lying in my path on the street, even curled up inside my breakfast egg. It was the egg that pushed me over the edge.

"That's _it_!" I shouted, leaping up from the table, "I've had it! I've got to get away from these fucking letters."

"Harry dear…" Aunt Petunia said but I cut her off:

"Pack your bags. We're leaving, now!"

"But where will we go?"

"Nowh ere. _Anywhere_, as long as we get away from these letters."

They tried to reason with me, they tried to plead with me but I was having none of it. I was scared and that made me desperate. I harangued them upstairs. I harangued them as they packed their cases. I harangued them into the car and out of Privet Drive.

We barrelled north up the motorway, Uncle Vernon driving and me dictating directions from the backseat. I had him turn off at random junctions, slaloming through the B-roads to rejoin the motorway a couple of miles along. We drove all day without a break until, early that evening, we reached a remote fishing village on the Scottish coast. I bounded out of the car and down to the jetty, while the Dursleys rushed towards the nearest lavatory. The road atlas showed a tiny island off the coast from this village and I hoped to reach it before nightfall. I seem to remember that I had some daft notion about wizards not being able to cross water.

"How much?" I asked a fisherman, unloading the day's catch from his boat, "How much for your boat?"

"Wuh? Ye cannae be goin' out on the water t'day," he said, pointing to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"I'm only going out there, for Christ's sake!" I said gesturing to the island, which I now saw was little more than an oversized rock with a few wooden huts clinging to it.

"I'm nae givin' yae ma boat. Good day tae ye!" said the fisherman, attempting to pass me by. I seized his shoulder and pressed my wallet, complete with cash and credit cards, into his hand.

"Take it all" I cried, and began untying the boat's mooring rope. Now the Dursleys came up, once more trying to reason with me:

"Harry, can't it wait 'til morning?"

"There's a storm coming! It's too dangerous."

I turned on them. At that moment, with perfect dramatic timing, we heard the first roll of thunder. The Dursleys leapt into the air.

"Get… in… the… boat," I snarled. They hurried down the jetty stair, silent and ashen faced.

We reached the island just as the storm broke over us. Mooring the boat as best we could to a spike of rock, we staggered up the shore in the pouring rain, dragging our suitcases behind us. We entered the first hut we came to. From the smell, I guessed it had once been used by the local fishermen to smoke their catch. You could _taste _the smell of fish in the air. The hut had no central heating but Uncle Vernon managed to light what passed for a fire using old driftwood and a newspaper. We huddled up to it as close as we could manage and listened to the rain hammering against the walls. For all that it was cold, damp and stinking of mackerel, I was happy there. I was sure that nobody would post letters to me there. Nobody, not even a wizard, could reach me on that god forsaken rock.

There was a knock at the door.


	2. First Contact

**Chapter 2: First Contact**

There was a knock at the door. It sounds such an innocent phrase, doesn't it? Not terrifying in the slightest. But look at it from my point of view; we were on a rock, out at sea, in the middle of the worst storm I'd ever experienced, and I couldn't quite fathom how we'd been followed. You sit through that and come out cheerful. I dare you. Give me some credit, I didn't scream. True, that was because the Dursleys _did_, and I was damned if I was going to sink to their level, but the point still stands.

And then the knock sounded again. At this point, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and I slunk behind my uncle. The fat bastard wouldn't be much use in a fight, but he was an excellent shield. And if the worst happened, I could probably crush any wizards underneath his bulk as I ran for it.

The wizard outside was clearly getting impatient, as the third knock was delivered with gusto. Specifically, the door was quite literally knocked off its hinges, crashing to the floor and letting in what felt like half the water in the world. As lightning flashed once more, our unwanted guest was lit up. Although I didn't scream, I'm not ashamed to admit that I whimpered, just a little. And I immediately gave up on my plan to crush him underneath Vernon. The wizard filled the doorway, and he was crouching down. It was horrible. For the first time since I was seven years old, I felt defenceless. My rudimentary magic skills would be useless against this monstrosity, and there was absolutely nowhere to run or hide. Even if I did lay down the Dursleys' lives as I made my getaway – and make no mistake, I considered it fleetingly – the giant would surely catch up with me. Besides, if the Dursleys died I was going to be short on cash: and wine, women and song didn't come cheap to a sixteen year old.

So I put a brave face on it, by which I mean I didn't gibber out loud or burst into tears, and stepped out from behind my uncle's bulk. As I did so, the wizard smiled widely, and stepped inside, looming over us like a Titan. He boomed something unintelligible and I nearly fainted, thinking he had cursed me. Nothing happened though, except his smile disappearing. He repeated himself, and I realised that the mangled syllables were, in fact, attempts at intelligent speech:

"'Arry Potter! It's bin too long since I saw yeh lad, too long! Jes' a baby y'were, I could fit yeh in me 'and, safe as 'ouses. 'Ow've yeh bin?"

I paused for a moment, mentally translating the speech, and once I'd inserted all the useful aitches, and filled in the gaps, I responded as best I could:

"Who the bloody hell are you? And why won't you leave me alone! I don't want to go to this bloody college, understand? Piss off!"

The beady eyes narrowed in confusion, and I realised that it was entirely possible that Dudley was no longer the dumbest person in the room: a truly terrifying prospect.

"Yeh don't recognise me? Well, s'pose you were only a baby…thought yer family might'a mentioned me though." He drew himself up proudly, which would have been impressive if he hadn't banged his head on the ceiling. "Well, I'm Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts College of Witchcraft and Wizardry. An' I'm here to get yeh ready for the start of term."

If you've been paying attention by now, you've probably guessed that I wasn't particularly impressed with the fact that I'd been met by the bloody groundskeeper, but I said nothing. I didn't need to; my uncle was saying it for me. I won't bore you with the details; it was covered fairly accurately in the fairytale I concocted (albeit with a small increase in bad language and crude assertions about Hagrid's anatomy), and as you probably know, it concluded with Dudley almost being turned into a pig. Let me tell you, when I finally got hold of my own Pensieve, that memory went on repeat for a while! It was a popular choice at the club, as well – but more of that later. I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yes, Dudley. Pig man. Amusing – well, alright, hysterically funny – as this was, it didn't do much to calm my nerves. Soon enough however, I was being dragged off the island to go clothes shopping, completely against my will and better judgement.

I didn't say anything though. Hagrid may have been a bastard, but he was an eight foot tall bastard who could crush me like an egg, even if he didn't attempt some frighteningly half baked magic. When he asked me to come with him, it seemed… rude to say no, shall we say?

We shall gloss over the trip to Diagon Alley; nothing much happened that you don't already know about. Potion ingredients; spell books; wand - "Terrible but great" – stupid old git; I'm convinced he was stoned half the time. Not that I'd judge a chap for indulging, of course. In fact, there are only three things worth revisiting from Diagon Alley:

First of all, I was now independently wealthy. I'd checked at the desk, and the vault did not include the sixteen years worth of interest. It wasn't enough money, of course – there's no such thing – but I could live like a king, even before you factored in the blissful Galleon/Pound exchange rate.

Secondly, I was a legend. A bloody legend. Once I'd winkled the story out of the oaf I could understand it, even if I didn't know what I'd done. I'd saved the Wizarding World, and hadn't had to lift a finger to do it – the best kind of victory, believe me, and I've spent a long, long time taking advantage of it.

Finally, Draco fucking Malfoy. Remember him? My school nemesis, the bane of my existence – the bastard's bastard, if you will. It's ironic really. We could have been marvellous friends, had things been just slightly different. He certainly appeared to be the right sort; clearly not short of a Galleon or two, and he had that indefinable air of influence about him. In short, from a family who didn't get things done, because they had people to do things for them. And he didn't like Hagrid, so we immediately had some common ground.

But of course, you know what happened, or at least a version of it. We ended up on very different sides of the battle, even though we'd both rather have liked to have sit the entire shambles out with a bottle of firewhiskey and a willing witch. As I said, we could have been friends, but for one difference: I had standards. He didn't. I said earlier that I've never been a Dark wizard, and I mean it. Some call it cowardice, some call it a single shred of human decency (thank you oh so very much Longbottom, you sanctimonious tosser), and others – well, others have just called it laziness. Malfoy on the other hand… well, it's not quite fair to say he never had a problem with torturing or killing people, or doing unsightly and highly improbable things with their bodily fluids, but it's definitely fair to say he didn't have the spine to do it himself. Didn't have the courage of his convictions.

What he did have, that first day, was a set of devilishly nice robes. I'm still not convinced they weren't ermine, even today. Not that he seemed interested; no, he was paying far too much attention to the woman kneeling in front of him to take measurements. There was a slightly sinister leer on his face. He looked up as I walked in, and nodded at me briefly. I stood there patiently as Madame Malkin fussed over me, and then she brought out the Hogwarts robes.

They were awful. No shape to them whatsoever, and a very mediocre material. I looked at the woman scornfully. "I'm sorry, do you seriously expect me to wear this rubbish?"

"But sir, these are the traditional – "

"I don't care. I'll be damned if I'm not going to look my best. What else have you got?"

The woman rolled her eyes with a mutter, and stalked off to find some more samples. Malfoy nodded at me approvingly. "That's right, you've got to let them know where they stand. Keep them in the place."

"I couldn't agree more," I told him.

"Glad to hear it. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, but you'll know who I am of course," he remarked offhandedly. He didn't ask me my name. "God, I can't wait to get to Hogwarts. You'll have heard the stories?"

"Yes, I've heard it's rather prestigious." I'd be lying if I said that I sounded effusive, but Malfoy didn't notice.

"Seven years of endless parties – they mean it when they say they're the best years of your life, don't they!"

"What? Oh, parties. I thought you meant the education…"

Malfoy scoffed. "Who cares about learning? It's not like they teach us anything we don't already know, is it?"

I rather got the sense that disagreeing with him might not be prudent, just at the moment.

"Hmm. Know which house you'll be in yet? I'm Slytherin, of course."

"How do you know?" It was a bad question.

"How do I know? It's a Malfoy family tradition! Ten generations of my family in Slytherin, rather a record actually." He actually puffed up like a peacock as he said it – no, really. "You'll probably be there too, easy to see you've got the right…qualities."

"What qualities?"

Malfoy simply rubbed his fingers together meaningfully, and I nodded in understanding. I grinned at him, confirming his statement.

"Thought you would be. Slytherin for the class, Gryffindor for the thugs, Ravenclaw for the secretaries, and Hufflepuff for the menial drones. I bet you a galleon this one was in Hufflepuff," he said to me, looking down at the assistant in front of him. She flushed angrily, but once again, said nothing. Malfoy nodded to himself in satisfaction. "So, where are yours?"

"Mine?" I was getting increasingly lost in this conversation. Somewhere along the line, I'd obviously given the impression that I was in possession of the cipher book, and Malfoy seemed to assume I could translate.

"Your parents, obviously! Must be around somewhere; getting you a decent trunk are they? Best to take advantage now, while they're building up to miss you, take it from me. They'll spend thousands on you if you play your cards right."

"They're dead. The money's all mine, actually." I still get a little twinge of satisfaction from that memory, the first time I put Malfoy down. Admittedly, not a major statement, but the idea that I had money of my own obviously pissed him off. He recovered well though, merely shrugging and then affecting boredom.

The fitting carried on in silence, Madame Malkin returning with some better robes for me. I didn't get anything too ostentatious, just cashmere with a velvet trim and a silk lining. I cut quite a dash with my wand in my hand and my cloak swept back, though I say it myself. My moment was ruined – as I should have expected – by Hagrid.

"Merlin's blue balls, who the bloody hell is that?" Clearly, Draco had never seen the ragtag giant I'd been paired with, and I explained. Malfoy shot me an incredulous look. "You…you're being escorted by the groundskeeper? Hah! Maybe you're a 'puff after all…"

Me, a 'puff? From that moment on, he was dead to me.

XxXxXxXxXxX

So. There I was, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. To be honest, I never really got used to the title; I didn't like thinking of myself as a boy anymore, but I could tell that it wouldn't change until the day I died. The last few weeks at Privet Drive passed without real incident – my 'family' had been terrified of me even before I acquired a wand, and knowing that I could curse them even more effectively with the stick than I had done cowed them even further.

I didn't sleep much the night before term started. Finding out I was a wealthy hero had softened the blow of being taken away from my kingdom at Smeltings somewhat, but I knew I'd still have ground to make up once I actually got to Hogwarts. I'd flicked through a few textbooks, but hadn't really bothered myself too much. Really, I planned to just rely on charisma and my reputation to set myself up at the college. Given the reaction I had received in Diagon Alley, I was fairly confident that I would have people practically begging to wait on me hand and foot, but that didn't stop me feeling a slight flicker of nervousness that kept me awake until the early hours.

After getting me to the station, the Dursleys vanished so fast that, looking back, I'd be convinced they Disapparated. I allowed a small smile to flash across my lips for a moment, then pushed my luggage into the station. A glance at the ticket Hagrid had given me left me spluttering with rage. Platform 9 and ¾'s? If I found out that Neanderthal was playing a prank on me… However, all was not lost. Glaring around the station, my eye was caught by a red haired girl, slouching along the platform behind some equally ginger boys, and a woman I assumed was her mother. While she was sadly lacking as far as her chest went, her arse was definitely worth a second look. In the absence of anything better to do – and figuring that asking a porter where Platform 9 and ¾'s was would be futile – I wandered after her, pushing my trolley in front of me.

As it happened, she looked back over her shoulder as I fell in behind them, and I saw her face for the first time. Nothing special – too freckly for my tastes. Of course, you're probably reading this and feeling rather confused. You've undoubtedly deduced that this was Ginny Weasley, and know I ended up marrying her, after all; "It wasn't love at first sight?" you ask. Well, no, to be perfectly frank. Ginny Weasley was and always will be…open for business, perhaps – but I'm getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say, my initial interest consisted of little more than deciding that I wouldn't kick her out of bed.

It was about then that I heard the mother muttering something about Muggles. They were wizards; I was in! Running a hand through my hair, and putting on my most charming smile, I made my way over to them.

"Excuse me? I couldn't help but hear you mention Muggles, and I'm afraid I'm a little lost – looking for platform 9 and ¾'s…"

"Oh! Of course dear, of course, just follow us. It's Ron's first time at Hogwarts as well. I'm Molly Weasley, these are my children…."

I nodded pleasantly at them as she introduced them all, widening my smile just a touch for Ginny, who gave me an appraising look. Time to whip out the big guns, as the warlock said to the witch: "Charmed. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

I won't deny, the looks on their faces sent a magnificent shiver of pleasure down my spine. Ron in particular looked like he'd just witnessed the second coming of Merlin, and his jaw nearly hit the floor.

"Harry Potter?" Molly whispered, in awed tones. "Good Lord…may I say that it is an honour to meet you, an absolute honour!"

"Yes, I expect it is isn't it?" I commented.

With their guidance, I was able to get onto the platform, where the old steam train that awaited me wasn't quite what I was expecting. Still, the carriages looked luxurious enough, and I wandered off to load my bags on board.

"Do…do you want a hand with that?"

I turned round to find Ron standing there, looking like a puppy who'd just learnt a new trick.

"A hand with what?"

"Getting your bags on."

"Oh, right. Well, thanks awfully!" I stood back, interested to see what he would do. He looked confused for a moment, but seemed to get the idea pretty quickly. He dragged my trunk from the trolley, and hefted it up onto the carriage with a grunt. Hedwig's cage followed. He looked over at me and I smiled broadly at him: "Ron, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship…"

My arse it was. Well, that's not entirely true – Ron's been one of my closest companions ever since, but I wouldn't call him a friend. Dogsbody, perhaps but that's all I've needed, really – what more company do you need than someone to have a drink and a smoke with, other than someone to warm your bed at night? And he's more or less responsible for one of the worst things to ever happen to me… but again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once Ron had established his place in the partnership, I led him down the train to find some seats. While he wasn't exactly a sparkling conversationalist, Ron did manage to fill me in rather nicely on some of the more social aspects of the Wizarding world; Quidditch sounded like rather a lark, and I was intrigued by the mention of Firewhiskey. It quickly became apparent that he wasn't the brightest bulb in the box though – and he certainly lacked ready cash, judging by his astonished (not to mention envious) expression when I bought half the food trolley. I felt I had the measure of him though; allowing him to share the food brought a smile back to his face. Keep him sweet with a bit of generosity every now and again, and let him hang out with the Boy-Who-Lived, and he'd die for me. I'd seen his type at Smeltings, and I knew how to handle him.

But enough of Ron. Time to move onto some of the other players in this sordid little tale. You will of course be familiar with Neville Longbottom? Spineless, brainless, fat, borderline Squib Neville Longbottom? For most of his time at Hogwarts, anyway. Well, I lied. Yes, I admit it – the Neville Longbottom you're all familiar with is a complete fabrication. Never existed – come on, you didn't seriously think someone could be so thoroughly useless did you? Even Ron had his uses on occasion, and we've already established that he was never much more than a minion. However, that is not to say that Neville didn't exist. He did – and I hated his guts. Believe me, you would have hated him too, if you'd ever met him.

Longbottom. Neville Martin Stuart Longbottom, named for his grandparents on his father's side, I believe. Even at sixteen, he was tall, athletic, infuriatingly good looking, and noble to the core. Would you believe, just the other year he had a fucking half-Veela after him, while he was on holiday, and he didn't do anything? Seriously! A half-Veela, the single most attractive piece of skirt I have ever seen in my life (no relation to the Delacoeurs, as it happens, but a similar effect), and he wouldn't touch her! Said that "It wouldn't be right", and that "it would be a betrayal of Hannah." Well, yes, I suppose it would be, but Hannah Abbott was something of a Plain Jane, let me tell you, and… well, did I mention that she was half-Veela? I couldn't believe it, I really couldn't. I'd have killed for a roll in the hay with her… Anyway. Yes, Neville Longbottom. Obviously, I wasn't going to put him in my books like that – I was the hero for God's sake, not him. And frankly, he was such a pompous bore that an accurate portrayal would have bored the pants off the readers.

We first met when he ambled into the carriage I was sharing with Ron, teeth flashing obnoxiously, and another boy standing behind him, looking rather sheepish.

"Afternoon chaps! Sorry to disturb you, just wondering if you've seen a toad? Justin here's misplaced his pet, you see, just giving him a hand looking for it!"

Well of course Perfect Neville Bloody Longbottom didn't have a toad. Weren't you paying attention when I said that that Neville didn't really exist? No, Neville had an owl, just like the rest of us. Well, the rest of us worth mentioning, anyway.

We both shrugged at him, and he sighed. "Ah well, never mind eh, Justin? Plenty more carriages to search yet! By the way, Neville Longbottom, pleasure to meet you both."

Ron shook his hand cheerfully, while I limited myself to a forced smile. He didn't take the hint, waiting for an introduction. "Harry Potter," I told him, admittedly a little curious as to his reaction. It wasn't quite what I'd hoped.

"Potter eh? Well, glad to meet you! I expect we'll be seeing great things from you in class – bet you can't wait to show us what you can do?"

"I – well, you know, one doesn't like to blow one's own trumpet…" I blustered. I hadn't expected to be put on the spot like that!

"Nonsense, you'll be excellent! Head Boy in waiting, I'll be bound. Anyway, best be off, this toad isn't going to find itself is it Justin?"

The other boy shook his head meekly, and Neville slapped him on the back in a hearty fashion. "Chin up! Don't be so shy, we're all friends here, aren't we?"

_No we bloody well aren't_, I said to myself. Ron, blast him, smiled at the snivelling halfwit.

"See? Told you so Justin. Don't suppose you chaps want to lend a hand do you? Four heads are better than two, you know."

"Love to Neville, but I was just giving Ron a few tips on Quidditch you see – don't want to lose my train of thought." I've always been proud of my poker-face. It's served me well in numerous different circumstances, and this was no exception. Obviously, Ron was well aware that this was, you might say, a bare faced lie, but he wasn't going to contradict me.

"Ah, of course. Understand completely Harry, completely. Well, see you at the Sorting!"

And with that, they left. I closed the door after them with a bang, and sat back down in a huff. "Git."

"I thought he seemed all right, myself," Ron commented. I looked at him, eyebrow raised questioningly, and he ducked his head. "I'm probably wrong, of course."

"Course you are, Ron. Good job you've got me to look out for you!"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


	3. Laying the foundations

Chapter 3: Laying the foundations 

It was dark by the time the train drew up at Hogwarts. Students streamed out of the carriages and flooded the platform, suitcases and cages clattering behind them. As soon as Ron and I alighted we were hailed by a familiar and unwelcome voice:

"'Arry! Over 'ere! It's me!"

I cringed and pretended not to hear Hagrid but he had spotted Ron too:

"'Ey, you the latest Weasley? Over 'ere! All first years, over 'ere!"

We joined the knot of people assembling round the great oaf, while the older students headed to the right where a fleet of (apparently) horseless carriages waited to ferry them away.

"Y'all got everythin'?" asked Hagrid, his uncouth accent grating in my ears, "Follow me!"

We left the platform and filed through a stretch of woodland, Hagrid going ahead holding a lamp. At length we came to the edge of a very large lake. A flotilla of tiny boats was waiting for us, moored in a little bay.

"In yer get! No more 'n four ter a boat!" Hagrid boomed, clambering into one and nearly capsizing it in the process.

I was in no mood to go sailing again after my excursion off Scotland but, as I apparently had no choice, Ron and I palled up with two other first years and tried to make ourselves as comfortable as we could.

As soon as everyone was safely aboard the boats pulled away from the shore, propelled by some invisible force. A short way out the flotilla turned and started to follow the shoreline north, maintaining perfect formation all the while. A rocky headland blocked our way ahead. As the flotilla rounded this point, we caught our first glimpse of Hogwarts. Everyone gasped, and I didn't blame them. It was, and remains, a stunning sight, tall and majestic atop the cliffs: Hogwarts Castle, the Fortress of Unnumbered Towers (that's not poetic guff by the way: the towers will start moving around if they spot somebody trying to count them). The light from her windows seemed to turn the surface of the lake to polished gold, across which we glided towards the cliffs.

At first I thought the flotilla was about to wreck itself on the cliff face and was about to cry "Abandon ship!" when the lead boat promptly slipped through the rock as if it was so much mist. On the far side was a short tunnel, which brought us to an underground jetty. Leaving our cases behind (I didn't trust Hagrid not to rifle through my belongings, or tip them into the water by accident, but I couldn't stay without looking a fool) we climbed a narrow staircase up to a spacious stone chamber lit by flaming torches. Waiting for us there was a tall, black haired witch: Minerva McGonagall, the battleaxe's battleaxe.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, not cracking a smile. I soon learned that this was normal for McGonagall. Malicious rumour had it that some irate student, displeased with yet another overly harsh essay mark, had found a novel use for the Levitation Charm and _literally_ stuck a poker up her arse. Whether this was true or not I never found out, but I swear the Bloody Baron was better company than that sour-faced old spinster.

"The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses," she explained. I drifted off a bit here, I confess. There had been a house system at Smeltings and only the sporty types had given a damn about it. For everyone else it just determined where you slept and what colour tie you wore.

When she had finished speaking McGonagall left us to fidget and make uneasy small talk for a few minutes, before returning to lead us through the cavernous Entrance Hall and into the even larger Great Hall.

All the first years gawped, most of them at the soaring gothic architecture, the floating candles and the ceiling which mirrored the starry night sky above the castle. For myself, while I was aware of these things, my admiration was confined to one thing alone: the totty. The four long tables seemed to be crammed with beauties of every shade and shape. It was like Hogwarts was drawing its female students from a modelling agency. I later learned why this is. While in the Muggle world most women have to spend a fortune on makeup, hair products, surgery and the like to maintain their looks, witches have magical alternatives. The ravages of puberty are countered with over-the-counter potions and natural beauty is easily enhanced with magical spells. Most Muggle-born girls who attend Hogwarts soon take advantage of these enhancements, with the result that there's hardly a dog in the batch.

I was only distracted from my ogling when McGonagall brought forward an ancient wizard's hat and set it on a stool in front of the whole assembly. A tear in the hat's brim opened and it began to sing. It takes a lot to hold my attention when there are so many exquisite fillies in a room but a singing hat managed it:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can top them all.  
There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
If you've a steady mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

This put a new complexion on the whole 'house system' issue. It appeared that Malfoy had not just been airing empty-headed prejudices when I met him in Diagon Alley: personality determined your house. I was fortunate to be among the 'P's, so I could scan the room and weigh up the four houses while the other first years were being sorted.

I quickly ruled out Hufflepuff. There were a lot of dull or merely vacant expressions at that table; clearly the house for morons. Ravenclaw went by the board next; a bunch of nerds who rarely saw the outside of a library. That left me with a difficult choice: Gryffindor or Slytherin? I felt an immediate aversion to Gryffindor; too clean cut, too honest and pious-looking. I could see Neville Longbottom becoming their star turn. That left Slytherin, which seemed almost entirely made up of shifty little buggers with clammy hands or toffs with no chins and a permanent sneer on their lips. Malfoy would be right at home and I knew the damned Hat would probably stick me there too, but I also knew I did not want that to happen. I wanted to play the hero card pretty strongly, even at that early stage, and it would be extremely difficult to look the part if I was surrounded by the sneaks and snobs of Slytherin. I needed to be around Gryffindors, to appear to _be _a Gryffindor, even if my heart was Slytherin through and through.

McGonagall called me forward. There was a tense, expectant silence in the Hall. Everyone was anxious to see where the Boy Who Lived would be sorted to. I sat on the stool and allowed McGonagall to lower the hat onto my head.

"Interesting," said a small, shrewd voice in my ear, "Most interesting… Lots of talent here, oh yes lots of talent, even if it has some… _unorthodox _expressions, hmm? Cunning, certainly, and ambitious…"

"Not Slytherin," I thought, hoping that the hat could hear me as I heard it. I was relieved to receive the reply:

"Not Slytherin? But you seem a natural fit..."

"Not Slytherin. _Not Slytherin!_"

"I can't think where else I'd put you. Not much loyalty; no real desire for knowledge; hardly any courage…"

"But I don't _want _to go to Slytherin."

"What you _want _is none of my concern," said the hat pompously, "I put people where they belong; not where they want to be."

"But it's an arbitrary distinction, isn't it?" I thought hastily, lest the hat should break off the conversation, "I mean, sorting people into four camps based on those rudimentary categories."

"But it's tradition…" the hat said, sounding less sure of itself now.

"I mean come on, psychiatrists have been exploring and codifying the variations in human personality for over a century now and you expect to be able to divide them up based on such flimsy criteria as 'courage'? How do you define 'courage' in the first place, eh?"

"Alright where do _you _think you should go, smart arse?" the hat asked peevishly.

"I quite fancy the look of Gryffindor."

_ "GRYFFINDOR?" _

The hat screamed this last word to the whole hall. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheering, whistling and cat calling at the other tables. I glanced over at the Slytherins and saw Draco Malfoy staring at me with obvious disgust. If there was any doubt before, my sorting had made it certain: Malfoy hated me. The feeling was more than mutual. Oily bastard.

After a splendid feast, which was spoiled somewhat by my having to endure Longbottom's gratingly jovial conversation, we retired to our dormitories. I climbed into my soft four poster bed feeling rather pleased with myself. I was young, rich and a celebrity in a school filled with beautiful girls. I thought I could do rather well for myself at Hogwarts.

* * *

There was one small problem I had to overcome first, however: I was not very good at magic. I soon discovered that there was an awful lot more to wizardry than waving a stick and saying some mumbo-jumbo Latin. I was far from being a Squib but learning real magic requires two things above all: perseverance and self-discipline. My time at Smeltings had given me neither. By the end of my first week I was near the bottom of every class and that was with the teachers who _didn't_ persecute me at every turn.

Severus Snape had several reasons to hate me. I had good looks, while he had none. I was popular, while he had always been at the bottom of life's pecking order. There was also the history with my father and his friends, which I did not to find out about until I was nearly nineteen. But Snape hated me most of all because, right from that very first lesson, he saw through me. He knew that I was a bastard and a fraud as soon as he clapped eyes on me. I still remember his first words to me during my first Potions lesson of the year:

"Ah, Mr Potter our new _celebrity…_" he then turned to address the rest of the class, but I was in doubt that he was still speaking directly to me, "You will find that reputation counts for very little in my laboratory. Smooth tongues and winning smiles are no substitute for talent and hard work."

Our relationship went downhill from there.

In fact the only thing at Hogwarts that I seemed to have any aptitude for (besides lying and chasing the girls, neither of which I had had much opportunity to practice yet) was flying a broomstick. Ron had taken me through the basics on a school broom one evening and I took to it very quickly. It was a great rush, zooming through the castle turrets or skimming just above the surface of the lake. Muggle readers can't begin to imagine the buzz one gets from it; driving a fast sports car doesn't even come close.

Needless to say, my talents in the air were soon noted and I was invited down to the Quidditch pitch to try out for the Gryffindor team. Oliver Wood, the captain, was a big, muscle-bound type, fond of a drink and fanatical about his sport. We hit it off immediately and, thanks to my slim build and quick reflexes, I was appointed the new Gryffindor Seeker. And yes, I'm afraid Quidditch is played as I described it in my children's books. You did not think I would make up something that stupid, did you? Lord knows why they have those rules; there's hardly any reason for the Chasers or Keeper to be on the pitch. You get so many points for catching the Snitch that the Seekers almost always decide the game. Not that it stopped Longbottom trying. Yes, Neville made the team too. He flew nearly as well as me but he played Chaser and was the damndest shot with a Quaffle that you ever saw. Sometimes he put us so far ahead that I didn't need to bother catching the Snitch; there was no way the other team could keep up with his scoring.

So, I had found my niche among the Quidditch set. This was not just confined to the Gryffindors; the top Quidditch players formed their own society, above and beyond the house system. Strictly off-pitch of course; on pitch anything went and I do mean _anything. _You haven't seen dirty tactics until you've seen a Hogwarts cup final. But more of that later.

I was into my third week and struggling like mad with the coursework. I made some half-arsed attempts to actually study but it's just not in my nature; if you haven't developed the habit by the time you're sixteen you're unlikely to develop it in a few weeks. So I fell back on my old tactics: bullying and manipulation. They had served me well at Smeltings but there I had been feared by both staff and pupils. At Hogwarts the only person I had any serious influence over at the moment was Ron and he was about as academic as I was. So, when intimidation failed, I cast around for someone I could manipulate. A particularly hard-up swot whom I could pay to do my work for me, perhaps?

At length my eye fell on one of my fellow Gryffindors, a first year named Hermione Granger. Although at the top of every class since day one, as a Muggle born she had not had access to any magical beauty treatments and, although by no means plain, she looked rather homely when placed alongside her sister students. Her buck teeth and bushy hair were not a good combination and I thought she might be grateful for some male attention.

"Hello Granger!" I said brightly, dropping down beside her in the common room one evening.

"Potter," she said, not looking up from her book.

"Say, Granger, I'm in a spot of bother at the moment," I said, flashing her my most winning smile, which she did not see, "I'm finding all this magical stuff a bit of a headache and I was wondering if you might be able to lend a hand?"

She finally deigned to look up from her book and fix me with an unsympathetic stare.

"Why don't you talk to a teacher?"

"Pah!" I waved my hand dismissively, "Been there, tried that. No, what I need is a bit of out-of-hours assistance. Something that they, perhaps, might not look too kindly on…"

"I'm not helping you cheat, if that's what you're asking."

"Really, Granger?" I said, leaning in close and slipping my hand onto her thigh, "I could make it worth your while."

"Ugh, no _thank you!_" she said, rapping my wandering hand with her wand. I yelped and drew back my hand, which had turned vivid green, while she flounced off to her dormitory. It took three days for my hand to return to its normal colour.

The weeks passed, me struggling in the classroom and cutting a dash at Quidditch training. I tried to ignore the looming essay deadlines and instead concentrated on exploring the pubs of Hogsmeade with my fellow Quidditch players. They were golden days: me, Wood, McLaggen, the Weasley twins, Davies, Diggory, Malfoy and Flint. Yes, Malfoy and I were part of the same set. We hated each others guts but confined ourselves to sniping at one another, for the most part. Other than that we all had great fun, getting bladdered then tearing through the village streets on our brooms. Great times.

None of this helped me with my classes, of course. Those essay deadlines were drawing closer and I would be lucky to scrape through with a pass. I was starting to wonder if you could be expelled from the college for gross incompetence. At best, news of my abysmal performance would get out and I would be the laughing stock of Hogwarts: the Boy Who Lived could not even cast a simple charm. I resolved to give Hermione another try.

"Granger," I said, cornering her in the common room, "I need help, _please."_

"Get lost, Potter," she said, gathering her things to leave.

"Wait, listen, please. I'm sorry about before. I really need some help. What do you want? I'll do anything…"

"There's nothing you have that I could possibly want."

She was about to leave when Oliver Wood walked past.

"Hey Potter!" he cried, clapping me on the shoulder, "Great practice last night. The cup's ours this year for sure. See you later!"

As he walked away I noticed that Hermione's gaze lingering on Wood's arse.

"Do you… know him?" she asked me, blushing slightly.

"Might do," I said, sitting back in my chair, "It all depends."

"Could you… introduce me? To him?"

"I could. For a price."

"Alright," she sighed, "One essay for a date with Wood."

"Three essays."

"Three? I haven't got time to do that! One, or nothing."

"Three, or no date."

She bit her lip.

"Two, and I'll proof read the rest."

"Done," I said brightly.

That was the beginning of a long and happy working relationship. Hermione would help me with my coursework and, in return, I would set her up with my Quidditch playing pals. Not that they tended to complain. She might have looked like a chipmunk but she shagged like a dragon in heat. Or so I heard. I pounded the headboard with most of the Hogwarts fillies in my time but never Hermione. I didn't want to piss in the stream I drank from, as it were. We actually ended up becoming friends, after a fashion, although she always seemed to regard me as vaguely contemptible. Can't argue with her there, really. At least I know and accept what I am; that's how I've always looked at it.

From then on Christmas term passed very pleasantly for me, with Hermione handling the majority of my coursework and allowing me to concentrate on Quidditch, skirt chasing and general partying. Everything was going swimmingly for Harry Potter, until the first Quidditch match of the season: Gryffindor against Slytherin…

* * *

_Editors' note: Although we are confident that these documents are entirely genuine, we felt_ _it would be sensible to acknowledge that the Sorting Hat's song is identical to that found in '_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' _by J.K. Rowling. _


	4. Duelling Bastards

**Chapter 4: Duelling Bastards**

You may recall my mentioning that on the Quidditch pitch, anything went, regardless of personal friendships. Well, that went double for any match between Gryffindor and Slytherin – in part because there were very few friendships between the two houses. A combination of a general clash of personality types, and the two least popular professors in the school, with just a sprinkling of tradition, resulted in a lot of bad blood between the lions and the snakes. Shame really; Malfoy was a prick, but some of the others were decent enough fellows. I actually made a few inroads in my time at Hogwarts, probably due to my being something of a kindred spirit. Theodore Nott was always good for a black hearted laugh, and he could lay his hands on some sinfully good tobacco at a moments notice – his father had made his fortune off it,

Yes, it's true. A lot of wizards are partial to a drag of the old lung-rot. It's one of the few clichés that's actually true, although I was never able to master the art of smoke rings. Stupid trick anyway. But it wasn't uncommon to see a well-to-do wizard puffing away on a ridiculously oversized pipe. I quickly learnt that if you were really going to be respected, then discreteness was advised. Didn't want to look like you were making up for a short wand, as the saying goes. I myself favoured a four-incher carved from a rich mahogany, and it's still going strong today.

Anyway, I'm getting completely off topic. Sorry about that. Back to the Quidditch! As I said, there was an intense rivalry between the two houses, and this did sometimes bleed over into the Quidditch set – and I'll admit, I may not have been a beacon of modesty about my appointment as seeker. Well, Malfoy hadn't managed it, and any excuse to rub his face in it… And the first match of term was a juicy one, a real corker that I still smile fondly about today.

Flint was captain of the Slytherin team then, God knows why. Not why he was captain – that was perfectly obvious – but why he was in Slytherin. He fitted the house's criteria about as well as…well, as I did Gryffindor's. He was even worse at magic than I was, and by all accounts he actually tried in lessons. He did however bring a certain something to the Quidditch pitch. Mindless brutality for the most part, but everyone has their niche. Rumour had it that he had once dealt with his Chasers inability to score by hauling the Ravenclaw Keeper off her broom and dropping her to the ground. I didn't believe it had happened, but I did believe Flint would do it, if he could get away with it.

The fact that he couldn't get away with it was perfectly demonstrated in my first match. Longbottom was demolishing the Slytherin line of defence, keeping the Quaffle almost permanently in his possession. On the rare occasions a Slytherin got a look in, Wood kept the goals locked tighter than Cho Chang's legs (silly little witch was saving herself for 'the one'; I never did score with her, I'm sorry to say. Not even a blowjob). But of course, the match wasn't over until the Snitch had been caught, and its one hundred and fifty points netted – and even Longbottom wasn't scoring that quickly yet. Naturally, Flint decided the best course of action was to get me off my broom. For about half an hour, I found myself dodging a constant barrage of Bludgers and 'accidental' kicks.

I didn't hold it against him. I'd have done the same in his position, after all. However, Madame Hooch did take exception to it, and Flint was on the receiving end of one hell of a rollicking. I assumed that would be it…and then my broom started to buck beneath me. And I don't just mean as if in a stiff breeze – I mean like a bucking bronco. I don't mind telling you, it nearly threw me off, and I still don't know how I managed to cling on. At the time, I had no idea what was happening – for all I knew, it was a common problem, although not one I'd ever had before.

It was…nerve-wracking, shall we say. It was my first real taste of danger, although I felt unusually calm about it. Probably because I was on a broom, which always calmed me down. Still, I don't mind admitting that I nearly snapped the broom in half I was gripping it so tight. Could it have been part of Flint's campaign? Or was the broom simply damaged? I didn't know of any magic that could do this, but then I didn't know much magic full stop. I was fairly certain that nobody on either team would be able to muster the magical chops to jinx me, fly, play Quidditch _and _keep anybody else from noticing all at the same time, but you never know. There wasn't much I could do about it though. I ended up bucking all around the Stadium – even into the spectator stands, on a couple of occasions. Never mind an out of control broom, there's nothing quite so heart-stoppingly scary as nearly smacking your Headmaster in the face with the business end of your broom stick, take it from me. I did send Draco Malfoy flying though. It occurred to me that he was probably enough of a bastard to try and knock me off my broom like that, and I won't deny seeing his hair get mussed up for a change made me smile.

So yes, all things considered, I made a good accounting of myself first time out. Yes, catching the Snitch in my mouth was a fluke, I'll admit, but I'd have caught it regardless. Naturally, the party afterwards was veritably Bacchanalian.

As was my usual habit, I kicked the evening off with a quick round of butterbeers – nothing too strong, but if drunk in sufficient quantities enough to get one pleasantly tipsy. From there, I proceeded to spend the rest of the evening getting my tongue as far down Katie Bell's throat as I could – a Quidditch player a year or so above me, I forget precisely. I had high hopes for bedding her in the next few days. Ron was gazing at us in some confusion, bless him. I don't think anyone had ever got round to telling him the facts of life before this, so it must have been something of a rude awakening. Still, you'd think that with that many brothers and sisters he might have picked up a few things, brainless though he was. Especially with the twins around – Fred and George were both serious players. That evening they both had a girl on each arm, and it seemed likely that they would soon be participating in their very own orgy. Lucky bastards, although I did manage that a couple of times myself…

The evening was going with a real swing until the Slytherins showed up. Not _entirely_ uninvited; there was no hard and fast rule about post-match parties being solely for the winning house, and God knows they needed to drown their sorrows after the trouncing we'd given 'em. Still, it left a bad taste in the mouth, as a matter of principle. Fortunately, they'd foreseen this reaction and brought several bottles of finely aged fire whiskey to soothe the palate. And Daphne Greengrass, of course. She was a first year, like myself, but she'd already made an impression as the most attractive girl in the year, and the biggest cock-tease in the entire castle. For the most part, we were just happy to stare and drool.

I managed to wangle a bottle of the whiskey for myself and Katie, and we were soon laughing uproariously to ourselves in a corner, and I was happily working my hands underneath her robes. Just as I was about to confirm my sneaking suspicion that Katie went commando, I was dragged away. I would have complained, but the other Gryffindors wanted to praise me as the best Seeker ever, and it would have been rude to disagree.

I don't actually remember the party from that point… I do know I woke up in my own bed though, which ticked me off just a tad. All that work with Katie, and it hadn't paid off. And my head was killing me. I dragged myself downstairs to find Ron, and badger him to go and get me some tuck, but to my surprise I was met with applause from most, and a smug grin from Hermione.

"Oh? Party still carrying on is it? Well, bit early for me lads, but don't let that stop you. Just let me get some food inside me, and I'll be with you!"

Hermione snorted derisively, and I glared at her. "What's your problem? Wood too drunk to get it up last night?"

"According to Katie, that was your problem actually. Trust me, Wood was very satisfactory," she responded with a toss of her hair. I frowned. Wouldn't be the first time alcohol had affected my prowess, I'll admit, but I didn't like to think too much about that. At least alcohol was a decent excuse. "No, I'm just laughing a little at your prospects for tonight."

"Tonight? What the hell's happening tonight?"

"God, you really were pissed last night weren't you…do you remember being the 'best Seeker ever'?"

"Well," I said with a grin. "I do have a vague memory of it, yes. Can't argue that much!"

"Hmm. Well, Draco Malfoy didn't agree. He was telling everyone that he was a better Seeker than you, and you… well, you punched him in the face."

"Really?" I quirked an eyebrow as I considered this. "Bloody well done me! I assume that's why people are applauding?"

"No. They're applauding because _after_ you punched him in the face, you announced – very loudly – that you could beat him at anything, and he challenged you to a duel in response. You accepted, by the way."

Now, I think I deserve a little credit for not shitting myself the moment I heard this information. Let me put this in perspective: for all that he was a bastard, Draco Malfoy was a pretty decent wizard. Discounting potions (because of Snape's horrific bias towards his own students), his best class was Defence Against the Dark Arts. I, on the other hand, could barely manage a few basic hexes. In short… I was probably going to die.

"Now, speaking as someone who's seen your homework, and knows how much effort you put into practicing your spell work…I'd say Malfoy's going to kick you around the castle tonight. I might come along and watch…"

I scowled at her, but my heart – understandably, I feel – wasn't really in it. I thought quicker than I had in a long time. I flashed her a grin. "Hermione. Old pal. I don't suppose you could see your way to – "

"What, take the duel for you?"

I considered. "Would you be able to do that?"

"I can, yes. Will I? No. This is your mess, you can get yourself out of it."

I swear to Merlin that gravity switched off around this point, and it was an effort to stop myself gibbering. She looked at me, and sighed wearily. "I suppose I could try and teach you something…have you ever heard of the Disarming Charm? Or a Shield Charm?"

I shook my head, and she looked like she wanted to smack me.

"Seriously? Neither of them? Jesus…we'd better get started then, hadn't we?"

I laughed hollowly. "Oh come on, Granger. We both know I won't learn anything that quickly…"

She didn't disagree. Well, she was nothing if not honest. As I turned to leave, she did offer one last parting shot – although she probably thought of it as comfort. "Ron agreed to be your second. You know, in case Malfoy tries anything."

Well, didn't that just fill me with confidence?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Ron had – sadly, in my opinion – remained sober enough to remember the details concerning when and where the duel was to take place; the Trophy Room, at midnight. He'd also filled me in on protocol: as this was a formal duel, we would be using special duelling wands, warded against tampering. Malfoy was to provide them, which didn't fill me with happiness, but I wasn't planning on using them anyway. Malfoy had graciously decided that the duel would not be to the death, which cheered me only slightly. While we waited for Malfoy to arrive with his second – Crabbe, a useless individual in every respect except his muscle – Ron and I went over our plan.

"Alright. When Malfoy hands over the wands, I'll kick him in the nuts. You set the room on fire. In the confusion, we claim a draw. Ok?"

"It seems a bit much, Harry…" Ron said doubtfully.

I glowered at him. "Maybe so, but that's the plan. We're in a stone castle, fire won't do any damage, and there's more than enough wizards around to conjure water aren't there?"

"I guess…"

"Then stop complaining."

We fell silent as Malfoy and Crabbe arrived. Crabbe was carrying a finely carved wooden box, and Malfoy gestured him over impatiently. The hulking bodyguard opened the box gingerly, revealing the duelling wands. Credit where it's due, they were impressive; elder wood with intricate patterns carved into them. I took one, and weighed it between my fingers.

"I like the feel of this one, I think. Assuming that's alright with you of course, Malfoy?" I asked, trying to sound cocky and knowledgeable.

"They're exactly the same, Potter, that's the bloody point," he muttered, taking the other wand. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

I was about to kick our plan – and Malfoy's family jewels – into action, but Ron grabbed my shoulder. "Someone's coming!"

We all ducked behind a display case, Malfoy dragging Crabbe with him irritably, and peered out.

"Is there someone here then, precious?" Filch. The caretaker and his foul cat. You're familiar with this charming individual, of course. I'd already had a couple of run-ins with him – caught me on the Astronomy Tower with a Hufflepuff girl – so I was even less happy to see him than the others were. Fortunately, there was another door not far from our hidey hole. Malfoy muttered something and flicked his wand, and the room was plunged into darkness. We made a dignified retreat, Filch at our heels.

At the staircase, we separated, Malfoy and Crabbe heading downwards to the dungeons, and Ron and myself just blindly running. We found ourselves on the third floor, and Filch had chosen to follow us…and the only door in front of us was locked. Ron, astonishingly, rose to the occasion, jabbing his wand at the lock. There was a click, and the door swung open. We dived in, closing it behind us.

"Where'd you learn that? We haven't learnt that in class."

"Heard my mum using it, thought I'd try it," Ron explained.

"Well, kudos. Quiet, I can hear something…"

Filch wandered around outside for a while, muttering to himself, but he didn't even try the door, which struck me as odd. Of course, you'll know why. Faced with a choice between Filch and an enormous, ravenous, drooling three-headed dog…well, Filch was the obvious choice. Happily, he'd already gone, and we slammed the door behind us once more. The beast's grunts and snuffles echoed down the darkened corridor. I looked at my trusted companion.

"What the fuck was that? And what was it doing here?"

Ron could only shrug in ignorance, and I snarled.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

On our return to the common room, I found – once again – that I had an audience. Most of the Gryffindor representatives of the Quidditch set, and a few personal admirers. And Hermione, smug cow.

"Well? How'd it go? Did ya kick his arse?" Seamus Finnegan asked, his eyes wide. Always a little enamoured of my fame.

I hesitated before answering. And then a grin started to spread over my face, which I hastily repressed. "Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance! Filch interrupted us, and Malfoy chickened out."

"It's true," Ron spoke up loyally, and I beamed at him. "Ran like You-Know-Who himself was after him."

"Ha!" Seamus high-fived our other room-mate, Dean Thomas, with a grin. "Told ya! Didn't even have to curse 'im!"

"Well, I'm glad everyone got out of this unscathed, I must say." Longbottom was making his way over to me. I groaned internally, but forced a smile as he clapped his arm round my shoulders. "Completely understand, Harry, completely, can't let someone cheapen your name like that, but duelling's a risky business. Very risky. Don't be so quick to rush into it next time ok?"

"Believe me, I won't…"

As the crowd dispersed, Hermione stepped over. "No need to thank me."

"What?" I was genuinely confused.

"Filch. He went there because I tipped him off – anonymously of course. I figured you'd rather be in detention than in several pieces, and it gave you a good get out."

"I…"

"Don't worry, I realise thank you isn't a big part of your vocabulary. Make sure Wood knows when I'm free, ok?"

"Yes…absolutely. And…" I winced. "Thanks."

"I can see that was a struggle for you," she deadpanned. "Anything else, or can I go now?"

"That's it – wait! You're brainy, you'll know. Is there such a thing as a three-headed dog, or was it a hallucination?"

"A three-headed dog?" Hermione frowned at me, her curiosity caught. "Where?"

I shrugged. "Third floor somewhere."

"Behind a locked door?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Yes, I unlocked it so we could hide from Filch," I lied shamelessly. She didn't seem convinced, but pressed on.

"Weren't you listening at the opening feast? Dumbledore told us to stay away from the third floor corridor on pain of death!"

"No, I wasn't. I was eating. Well, that answers that then. Bloody crazy wizards…" I turned and headed for bed. I needed it.


	5. Heat of the moment

Chapter 5: Heat of the moment

For myself, I was perfectly happy to leave the third floor corridor and its monstrous guardian well alone but Hermione and Neville shared a distressing habit of prying into things that did not concern them. That habit got meinto danger more times than I care to remember. It is just a shame that I could not foresee where all their prattling about the third floor corridor and 'Nicholas Flamel' would lead. Neville had managed to wheedle the name out of Hagrid, with whom he got on splendidly. No idea why. I still could not understand a blessed word the man said.

No, I did my best to put the whole incident behind me, as did Malfoy. Oh we both went around bragging that we had all but re-enacted Dumbledore v.s. Grindlewald, and had been mere seconds from claiming victory when Filch stumbled in, but neither of us was keen to arrange a rematch. We had met on the 'field of honour', despite possessing about a thimbleful of honour between us, and that was enough to keep our reputations intact.

Things passed pretty unremarkably until Halloween. Halloween is a big deal in the magical world and Hogwarts was always decked out splendidly for the feast. Live bats; animated skeletons; blood dripping down the walls; no expense was spared. The food that year was surpassingly good. Not that I tasted much of it. I slipped out early with a third year from Hufflepuff (don't remember her name; smashing tits, though). We were soon busy getting acquainted with one another in the girls' toilets on the fourth floor. And, not being at the feast, we missed Professor Quirrel's warning that a cave troll was loose in the castle.

I was seated in one of the cubicles, the girl bouncing away happily on top of me, when I heard the troll's growl; a sound not unlike someone pouring a sack of gravel into mud. Then followed the thud, scrape, thud of the troll shuffling through the door, dragging its club behind it. All of which presented me with a dilemma. When a gentleman is interrupted _in flagrante _by a man-eating cave troll, should he flee or finish the job at hand first? In the event I did not have a choice: the troll's growl had wilted me like a crocus caught in a forest fire. I dumped the girl on the floor and scrambled for my trousers: no easy task, I can assure you. It is difficult enough to get dressed when you're in a blind funk, never mind being stuck in a three foot wooden box with another person.

I opened the door a crack and peered out. The troll's vast, grey bulk blocked the door; my only escape. It was sniffing the air, its great knobbly head turning back and forth. I slipped back into the cubicle.

"You distract it," I hissed to girl, "while I go get help."

She shook her head, too terrified to move. I sighed.

"Alright. Stay here, okay?"

She nodded.

I leapt out of the cubicle, still fumbling with my belt buckle. The troll swung round to face me. It snarled, rattling the tiles on the wall.

"Hey, you!" I shouted, waving at the troll, "In there!" I pointed to the toilet cubicle, "Tasty nom-noms in there!"

The troll roared, blasting me with a smell like an open sewer, and lumbered forwards.

"Not me, you stupid bastard!" I cried, falling back, "There! She's in there! _Eat her, not me_!"

The troll swung its club. I ducked. The club crashed into a stone sink, which crumpled like an eggshell.

On all fours now, I scrambled to the troll's right, trying to slip past it. The troll turned, swinging its club in a long arc that smashed the row of cubicles to splinters. I could not see the girl in the debris but I did not care: all my thoughts were for myself. It takes far more than a good pair of udders for me to stick my neck out for somebody. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. Let the devil take the hindmost, that's always been my philosophy.

I had dropped to my belly to escape the troll's last swing. Now I was crawling for the door again but the troll was too quick. The club slammed into the floor ahead of me, spraying me with chips of tile. I rolled aside and found that in blind panic I had actually drawn my wand. In desperation I thrust it at the troll and screamed, hoping that by some miracle I might cast a successful enchantment:

"Bugger-off-o! Be-gone-y! Err… die-o? Oh _fuck_!"

The troll swung again. I rolled aside, avoiding the club by mere inches. Suddenly yesterday's Charms lesson came to mind. Somehow, some of Flitwick's piffle had lodged itself in a corner of my brain:

"_Wingardium Leviosa!"_

The troll's club rose out of its hand, turned sedately in the air and dropped onto its head with a dull 'thud'. The troll frowned, as if unsure what had just happened, and fell backwards with a crash that must have been heard right through the castle.

It took less than a minute for the teachers to arrive on the scene. They pulled the Hufflepuff girl out of the ruined cubicle. Fortunately for her she was unharmed, and fortunately for me she had been too scared to take in what I had been shouting at the troll. She began babbling on about how brave I had been; that I had tried to fight the troll off single handed. I'm often lucky like that.

While everyone else was attending to the girl, I noticed that Snape's leg was damp with fresh blood. Something had clearly bitten it: something large and, I guessed, residing in the third floor corridor. He quickly twitched his cloak round to hide it. Ho ho, I thought, what have you been up to while everyone else is looking for the troll? I was wondering if I could possibly blackmail Snape when Professor McGonagall spoke to me:

"And what, pray, were you doing here, Mr Potter? All students were ordered to return to their dormitories immediately."

I adopted an attitude of becoming modesty.

"I thought I might help look for the troll, Professor," I explained, "I didn't intend to fight it but when I saw that… err…erm…"

"Rebecca," the girl sniffed.

"Rebecca! When I noticed that Rebecca was in danger, well," I fixed McGonagall with a look of simple nobility, "I don't see how any decent wizard could have stood by."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but she did not question my story:

"You are very lucky young man, Mr Potter. Not many first years could have taken on a fully grown cave troll and lived to tell the tale!"

Lucky? She didn't know the half of it! I made my exit as soon as I could and returned to the common room, only to be interrogated by Ron, Hermione and Neville. I claimed to have got lost on my way back from the feast and had stepped in to defend the girl when she had been cornered by the troll. Ron and Neville lapped it up. I could tell Hermione was doubtful but she seemed far more interested in the bite I had spotted on Snape's leg.

"He must have let the troll in," she said, "He tried to get past Hagrid's dog on the third floor while the other teachers were searching for it."

"He's trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone," said Neville, brow furrowed in righteous indignation.

"The what?" I said, only half-listening to their conversation.

"The Philosopher's Stone. It's a magical stone that grants its owner unlimited wealth. It can also be used to brew the Elixir of Life; the secret of eternal youth," explained Hermione. She had my undivided attention now:

"There's only one in existence, made by a wizard named Nicholas Flamel. _That's _what the dog is guarding. Flamel must have given it to Dumbledore for safekeeping."

"Oh," I said, "Shame. I don't see why you're both getting so worked up about it. It's not like we can get at it with that bloody great dog standing guard."

"It's _Snape_ who's trying to steal it. And I doubt he will stop at one attempt," said Neville, completely missing my point.

"Good," I said, standing up and heading for my bed, "With any luck the dog will eat him and we won't have to endure his company anymore."

It did not take me long to forget all about Snape and the Philosopher's Stone (and yes, it is the _Philosopher's _Stone_. _Bloody American publishers. Not even the Imperius Curse can overcome some people's stupidity). News of my 'battle' with the troll spread quickly. Combine that with the key role I played in Gryffindor's victory over Ravenclaw in the Quidditch league and I was getting so much tail that I was forced pass a few onto Ron, just to give myself a breather. One of the perks of being Harry Potter's sidekick, I guess.

Behind the scenes, however, my encounter with the troll had shaken me pretty badly. Cheating on college essays was one thing but I was beginning to appreciate just how dangerous the magical world could be. I set to some fairly strenuous extra-curricular study with Hermione, learning a handful of spells that would be useful in a tight spot. Nothing fancy; in truth, _Expelliarmus _is the only spell I would ever claim to have truly mastered. Oh, and _Spolio _but that has rather limited uses…

Christmas came and I was inundated with presents from my various admirers and cronies. Mostly tat, of course, but there was the anonymous gift of my father's old invisibility cloak. God bless Albus Dumbledore, the old fool. I think he intended that I use it to investigate mysterious happenings around the castle or to hide from my enemies. Needless to say, I quickly found some thoroughly disreputable uses for it. I say again: God bless Dumbledore.

The holidays ended and Hermione and Neville returned, still wittering about the Philosopher's Stone. I ignored them. I had come up with a delightful scheme to torment Hagrid, perhaps even get the hairy lump sacked. Hagrid's fascination for exotic and dangerous magical creatures was well known. This gave me an idea. Through the Weasley twins I was put in contact with a shady old dealer from London called Mundungus Fletcher. He was able to sell me an illegal dragon's egg he had smuggled into the country. Then it was a simple matter of our insinuating ourselves into the crowd at the Hog's Head (in disguise, naturally), waiting for Hagrid to become sufficiently drunk and 'losing' the egg in a card game.

Oh it was great fun. The idiot thought that the dragon was harmless as a kitten. He bought it toys, even gave it a name. It wasn't until the fledgling dragon set the roof of his hut on fire that he conceded that it should be returned to the wild. Naturally the sainted Neville Longbottom came to his rescue, smuggling the beast out of the castle and all without getting caught, lucky bastard that he is.

How he found the time to help Hagrid I will never know, what with also being a straight 'O' student, star Quidditch player and self-appointed guardian of the Philosopher's Stone. It was about this time that he mentioned having overheard Snape threatening Professor Quirrell about the Stone and the three-headed dog, but it was all so much bumf to me. Oh I nodded and pulled a noble face when he was talking, trying to play my part as the amateur troll-slaying hero, but as far as I was concerned the less I had to do with the whole affair the better.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple where I am concerned. It was a late evening, towards the end of May. I had stumbled back to Gryffindor Tower after a party in the Ravenclaw common room. I had just settled in front of the fire with my pipe when Neville burst in.

"Harry!" he cried, full of earnest distress, "Harry, it's Snape!"

"What, where?" I looked round, fearing for a second that Snape was about to loom out of the shadows and spoil an otherwise pleasant evening.

"The third floor corridor! He's going after the Stone!"

"Good for him," I said, settling back into my armchair, "I hope that dog's hungry."

"It's no use," said Neville, in agonised tones, "He knows how to get past it. Hagrid told him!"

"How?"

"In a pub, down in the village. Over a card game, I think."

I shifted awkwardly in my seat. I vaguely recalled some talk about three-headed dogs in the Hog's Head. Had Snape been one of the hooded figures round that table? More importantly, had he recognised me_?_ Just possessing a dragon egg is a serious crime in the magical world. If he had seen me in the pub Snape could have had me up in front of the Wizengamot the next day.

"So?" I said, pretending to be unconcerned, "Guarding that Stone thing is Dumbledore's business, surely?"

"But that's just it_," _said Neville, "Dumbledore's gone; called away to the Ministry. I am sure it's a trick to lure him away from the castle. Snape must be going after the Stone tonight, _now. _We have to stop him."

"Steady on," I said, trying to prevent my rising feelings of panic from creeping into my voice. I could see Neville had devised some mad scheme to get us both killed chasing after Snape and I needed to get out of it.

"I know you're itching to get after Snape," I said, "It's admirable; damned admirable. But you can't just go rushing in after him. This is a matter for staff, not students…"

"There's no _time, _Harry," he said, pleading, "And I doubt they'd believe us anyway. We have to go now, you and me, before it's too late."

I could see the lunatic was determined to get himself blasted to bits, and I wanted no part in it.

"Be reasonable, Nev'. You don't think Dumbledore would have left the Stone unguarded, do you? I am sure there are more defences besides the dog…"

"But if Snape has worked out how to get past one defence, what's to say he hasn't worked out how to get past the rest? Come on, we have to go…"

He turned his back on me, heading towards the portrait. What happened next was pure panic on my part. Faced with a choice between almost certain death at the hands of a maverick Dark wizard and having it be known that I, the Boy-Who-Lived, duellist and troll-slayer, had refused to act in the hour of need, I chose a third option: I drew my wand and cast the first spell that came into my head:

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

Neville fell forward onto his nose, stiff as a board. I just stood and gaped. I don't know what shocked me more: the fact that I had jinxed him or that I had successfully cast it.

In keeping with my run of luck that evening, Ron and Hermione chose that moment to appear from their respective dormitories.

"Harry? Neville? What happened?" Hermione demanded.

I gawped at her, my mouth flapping uselessly up and down.

"Harry, what happened mate?" said Ron, staring at me with those stupid, trusting puppy dog eyes. My mouth responded while my brain was still fogged:

"Snape! Snape's going after the Stone. Dumbledore's gone and Snape... Snape's going to steal the Stone. Neville… tried to stop me going after him."

Sometimes I really hate my mouth.


	6. A Spot of Adventure

**Chapter 6: A Spot of Adventure**

"You're going after Snape _yourself_?" Hermione asked in scornful tones. For some unfathomable reason, she didn't seem to believe me. Imagine my surprise.

"Well of course I am!" I exclaimed, rallying magnificently. "What else am I going to do, sit here and let him take the Stone? Merlin only knows what he'd do with it!"

"Surely he'd use it to live forever in incredible wealth?" Ron said, frowning in concentration. Hermione and I shared a glance.

"Well…yes, precisely. We can't let him do that, can we?" I told him as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

In truth, I'll admit Ron's comment had caused me a little confusion. I understood of course why the Stone was not in the public domain, but what on earth was it doing in Hogwarts? If this Flamel chap had made it, why had he got rid of it? I'd keep it where I could see it, let me tell you! The thought did cross my mind – very, very briefly – that maybe Dumbledore had stolen it, and that Snape had been tasked with retrieving it…but then I quickly realised that theory didn't take into account two basic things: first, that Dumbledore, while a steely sort underneath it all, would never steal anything, let alone his friend's life work; and second, that Snape would never help anyone but himself, bastard that he was (a perfectly sensible attitude, in my opinion).

"So, O heroic one, what's the plan?" Hermione asked, folding her arms and raising an enquiring eyebrow.

I returned her gaze balefully. "Well…I'll…what I mean to say is…"

"Do you know how to get past the dog?"

I racked my brains, but I couldn't for the life of me remember what had been said that night. For the first time in my life (and almost the last) I cursed my habit of getting stinking drunk at any opportunity. I only wanted to shut her up, you understand. No man likes to be looked at like that by a woman, buck-toothed and frizzy haired though she was.

"I'll think of something," I told her. I know, I know, pitiful, but I'd like to see you do better under that kind of stress.

The eyebrow went higher. "Marvellous. And what happens if you get past – sorry, _when_ you get past, of course. Do you have any idea what's beneath the trapdoor?"

"Well…not in so many words," I admitted.

Her eyebrow was now reaching positively stratospheric levels. "Well, I can see you've got all of this under control. Snape's as good as stopped already, clearly."

"Look, Granger, if you're not going to help why don't you just go back to bed?" I told her snappily. I immediately wanted to kick myself for saying it; I really couldn't afford to piss her off. Fortunately for me – and somewhat to my surprise – she simply shook her head vigorously.

"I'm coming with you. We all know what Snape's like, and I really don't like the idea of him getting his hands on such a powerful artefact. We've got a responsibility to do whatever we can to stop him!" Before I could say anything, she'd aimed her wand at Longbottom. "_Finite Incantatem!_"

To my horror, Longbottom immediately went limp (probably the first and last time in his life, if what Hannah Abbott claimed was accurate. Bastard) as Granger cancelled one of the first successful spells I'd ever cast. I cringed, anticipating the angry yells, Longbottom leaping to his feet and declaiming my backstabbing nature to all and sundry…

"Wow, Harry, I think he's unconscious!" Ron exclaimed.

"Seriously? That's fan…that's awful, simply awful," I lied through my teeth, repressing a grin. Ron, bless him, was fooled completely. I'm rather certain that Hermione wasn't, but she was too caught up in proceedings to say anything. Small mercies etc etc!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

God knows where Filch was that night. Maybe he only worked so tirelessly when Dumbledore was around, and slacked off when the coast was clear. He wouldn't be the only person to have sucked up to the Headmaster. Regardless, we made our way to the third floor in relative peace and quiet, aside from my knees knocking and my better nature screaming at me to get the fuck out of there. I couldn't believe that I'd landed myself in this situation, but I couldn't see any way out of it. The only thing to do was blunder onwards and pray that I hadn't used up all my luck gambling.

We reached the pertinent corridor, and I eyed the door dubiously. It was slightly ajar, as if to encourage anybody who walked past to investigate. I was feeling quite the opposite, so I took the next best option:

"Ron, just nip in and check what's going on will you?"

My loyal companion paid no attention to Hermione's outraged yelp, and thrust the door open with no regard for whatever horrors it might have been concealed. Thankfully for us all, what was revealed was a snoring dog. I did my best not to let out a joyous shout. Hermione glared at me, and stormed into the room, looking around with interest. She, of course, had never seen the dog before. There was a harp in the corner, playing a melodious tune on itself. Just in front of the dog was a trap door. There was no other way out of the room.

"This must be it then," Ron remarked, grabbing the handle and tugging it upwards.

As the trapdoor opened, the main door slammed shut, and the harp fell apart. The hideous beast's eyes snapped open, and it stood up, shaking itself awake. It growled, a terrible sound that rattled my bones.

Naturally, I turned and tried to run. Can you blame me?

Unfortunately, when the door had slammed, something had stuck the lock shut. In desperation, I even tried the spell that Ron had used to unlock it months ago – but whether it was my general incompetence or something else, the door remained resolutely shut tight. I spun around, looking at the dog's three heads, and let out a quiet little whimper.

"Close your eyes!"

I was all too happy to do so, but even through my eyelids I could see the vicious flash that emanated from Hermione's wand. The beast howled, and I felt someone dragging me forward. I opened my eyes just as Hermione pushed me through the trapdoor. I landed with a thud in something soft. It _reeked_. And then Ron landed on top of me.

"Gah! Get off me you halfwit!" I pushed him away from me, scrabbling to my feet and wiping my robes down. Hermione shot through the trap door with a yell, and landed next to me. I scowled at her, and examined my robes. They were ruined. "Bloody hell…do you have any idea how much these robes cost?"

"Do you honestly think I care? You ran! Like a scared little boy!"

Well yes. Of course I had. "It was a strategic withdrawal," I told her, putting on my best poker face. She rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering a word under her breath. Her wand burst into light, and she held it up, revealing the room we had found ourselves in. It was a little squalid, to say the least. Plants were growing out of the walls, and vines hung from the ceiling. They looked vaguely familiar. "Did that Sprout woman have some of those?"

Hermione looked up, and blanched. "Oh my God, _Incend-_"

She was cut off mid incantation as one of the vines snapped round her hand, and yanked her into the air. Her wand clattered to the floor as she wriggled, and I realised that more vines were heading my way. Years of ducking out of fights served me well; I ducked out of the way and pressed myself against the wall with a sigh of relief. I appeared to be out of their reach. Ron was not so lucky. True, he had avoided the vines – it was the plants by the walls that were causing him problems. They were making a very spirited attempt to eat him; two had ensnared his arms, and a third was trying to take a bite out of his leg. I let out a scream as something slithered behind me, and I dived forward, rolling into a foetal position and trying very, very hard not to be seen.

"Harry! Harry, you've got to help us!" Hermione yelled from above me. "It's simple enough, they don't like fire-"

Another vine snapped around her neck, throttling her. She started tugging at it with her free hand, her face slowly turning red. I looked round the room frantically, and almost wept.

"There's nothing to light a fire with!"

She wrenched the vine free from her neck, and looked down at me furiously. "Are you mad? Are you a wizard or not?"

It was as if a light-bulb had gone off in my head: I reached into the pocket of my robe and withdrew my pipe and matches. Wizarding matches are a great deal more robust than those you find in the Muggle world, and I struck one, holding it to every bit of greenery I could find. Hermione was right; they really didn't like fire. I could almost hear them shrieking in agony as they withered away before the flame, and I felt strangely sorry for them. Perhaps a bit of kinship – they hadn't asked to be here, facing dangerous maniacs with flames, and I really wanted to be tucked up in bed with a bottle of brandy. The vines released Ron and Hermione, and she fell to the floor with a thud. She looked up at me, her face partly obscured by those awful tangles of hair, and growled.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind, Harry. You do have your wand, I assume?"

"Oh!" It honestly hadn't occurred to me – not that it would have been much use, of course. I took it out and waved it at her. "Yes, right here. It worked though, didn't it?"

She looked very much as if she wanted to ram the matches somewhere painful, and I hurriedly looked around the room. Now the plants had retreated, a door had become visible. I pointed at it. "That way, I think."

She grabbed her wand, and strode over to the door, kicking it open in a huff. I gulped, and followed her, beckoning Ron after me. The corridor we found ourselves in appeared to be empty, although I doubted even Ron was foolish enough to believe that was true. With an effort, I lit my wand, with Ron following suit. It seemed to stretch on forever. We looked at each other and I shrugged. "Well, onward ever onward, I suppose. If we really must…"

We trudged on. You'd have thought an empty corridor would have been soothing, but no, quite the opposite. While I did of course appreciate the lack of ravenous beasties, abnormal plant-life or dangerous magic, I kept expecting to stumble across them, you see. And not with any sense of eager anticipation, either. After ten minutes walking along the blasted corridor, I was starting to feel my bowels clench with nerves.

Eventually, Hermione called a halt. "This is ridiculous, it's going on forever! Hold on…" She faced the wall, and flicked her wand, muttering a word under her breath. Streaks of paint flew from the tip of her wand, spattering against the wall in a Pollock-esque pattern. "Right then, let's go."

Ron looked at me curiously. "What did she do that for?"

I hadn't a blessed idea, but I could bluff with the best of them. "It's a Muggle thing, Ron, don't worry about it. She must have learnt it in Brownies or something."

Ron frowned. "I didn't think Muggles knew about Brownies. And how would she have learnt anything from them? They're vicious little buggers if you're not careful."

"What? No, not actual Brownies, it's…" I shook my head. "Never mind, it's not important. Come on."

We hurried to catch up with her, and kept walking. And walking. And walking. And then all of a sudden, there was paint on the wall next to us. I pointed at it. "Hang on a moment. Hermione, didn't you put that there? How can it be in front of us? We've been walking in a straight line!"

She had a triumphant little smile on her face. "I knew it. I've read about this, it's a Never Ending Charm."

"A what?" I asked, nonplussed.

"They used to use them in pyramids, and places like that. You cast the charm, and the corridor-"

"Never ends," I muttered. Well, I might not be any good at magic, but I'm not an idiot.

"Pretty much. I'm not entirely sure how to break it though," Hermione said, clearly a painful admission. "It's a fairly obscure charm these days. Something to do with perception, but the book wasn't entirely clear."

"If it's never ending, then why's there a door there?" Ron pointed further down the corridor. He was right: after nearly half an hour of walking along the bloody thing, we could finally see the end. It hadn't been there a minute before.

"That must be it!" Hermione exclaimed, with unbearable enthusiasm. "Perception – once we realised that the corridor was enchanted, the enchantment broke. It's obvious, when you think about it."

"Oh yes, absolutely. I was just about to say that myself," I told her, trying to sound knowledgeable. She shook her head and walked onwards. The door opened to reveal a cavernous chamber. The path spread out, creating a wide ledge, but ended somewhat abruptly a couple of feet in front of the door, tapering off to a hole. Quite a large one, in fact. The way out was on the other side of the gap. Ron approached the gap, and dropped a pebble he'd picked up over the edge. We didn't hear it hit the floor.

"Oh well, we tried." I turned back the way we had arrived. "Come on, best get back, let them know."

"And tell them what? That you just gave up without trying?" Hermione had a knowing look on her face, as if she'd just played her ace in the hole. I stopped, and sighed. She was right of course. Hermione always was a damnably good judge of character, and at times it often felt like she knew me better than I knew myself. And I knew what people would say. Even if it was perfectly reasonable for me not to have a clue how to get past traps designed by some of the best minds in the world, the public would never accept that. If I was to get through this with any shred of my reputation intact – and therefore keep myself in the life to which I had become accustomed – I had little choice but to press onwards.

Being a celebrity is hard work, sometimes.

"Alright then, what do you suggest?" I looked over the edge of the path, and shuddered. Not vertigo – you don't get to be as good on a broom as I am if you're afraid of heights. No, as a wise man once said, it's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop…and here you couldn't even see the bloody stop. I turned back to find Hermione poking around on the floor.

"Have you noticed all this sand?" She stood up and walked the breadth of the ledge. "It's everywhere."

I looked down, and cursed. She was right, the sand was getting everywhere. My robes were quite definitely ruined. I didn't think even magic could clean them properly now. "So the place is dirty. What of it?"

"I'm going to try something…" She drew her wand, and held it steady in front of her. I stood back, discretely stepping behind Ron. Merlin only knew what she was about to do, but I saw no reason not to have someone to hide behind if necessary.

The sand whirled.

Merlin's wrinkly balls, she was moving the sand. Not simple levitation, but some form of Transfiguration. I knew that I would never manage such a spell, even if I lived to be older than Dumbledore.

I shrugged. No great loss.

The sand slowly moved out over the gaping hole, a pale, shimmering bridge. Hermione flicked her eyes over at me. "Come on."

"What?"

"Go on! Get over there!"

I looked at the bridge, then back to her, than back at the bridge. "No. Oh _hell_ no. It's sand, Hermione! I'm not walking on that!"

"I can't hold it much longer – it's not finished as it is!"

"Oh well that's a massive comfort! 'Go on, Harry, walk out over a fathomless drop on an unfinished bridge that's made out of fucking sand!" I try never to shout at girls, since it makes them significantly less likely to want to shag you rotten, but I have my limits. "Hermione, I hang out with Ron and this is by far the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

Ron didn't say anything to this. Well, I don't think he did. Who cared?

"Harry, please!" Hermione said through gritted teeth. "You're the only one who can stop him now, you know that don't you? I know you can do it really."

"What? But…oh damn it all!" I looked at the bridge once more, and sighed. Perhaps there really was a spark of decency in me after all. Or maybe I was just subconsciously aware that Hermione could ruin me, if she talked. I mean, it's not like I was good enough to Memory Charm her. "Ron, you go first."

"Sure thing!" He bounded out over the gap with bizarre enthusiasm, and miraculously didn't fall straight through it. "It feels fine, Harry. I promise."

Well, you can imagine how much value I put on one of Ron's promises, but I wasn't really in a position to argue. I put one tentative foot on the bridge. Surprisingly, he was right. It did seem fairly solid. I walked further out, sure that it would collapse at any moment.

"Hurry up…" Hermione groaned behind me. I looked back to find that she had fallen to one knee. The strain had burst a vessel somewhere, and blood was trickling from her nose.

We ran. Ron leapt at the door, bursting it open with his weight, and I fell through just as the bridge collapsed completely. The sand fell down into the dark abyss below.

"Hermione! Hermione, are you alright?" Ron called.

She didn't reply. Ron looked at me, stricken.

"Well, that's us fucked then," I told him gloomily. "Come on, better make the best of it…" I set off down the hallway, and after a moment he followed.

For a second, I thought we were in another Never Ending corridor. It was certainly dark enough. It felt different though. Darker. For reasons that may become clear later, I've always had a certain sense for these things. Something was quite definitely wrong in this corridor. We came to a point where the corridor turned at ninety degrees, and I carried on without pause.

"Harry…what's this?" Ron was looking at a carving on the wall behind me. It looked like pictures I'd seen of Viking letters while at the Dursleys – but what it was doing underneath Hogwarts, I couldn't say.

"Buggered if I know. Come on…"

He followed me, but before we'd gone far there was a sudden light from behind us, and a roaring noise. I really didn't want to know what it was…but it was irresistible, somehow. I turned round to see that there was a bloody wall of flame coming down the corridor.

We stood there in silence, raising our wands to try and fight it.

Really? You believed that? Of course we didn't, we ran like the hordes of Hell were coming our way, make no mistake about it! We ran until we ran out of floor, and I mean that literally. It fell away under us and we landed with a splash.

Years at Smeltings had left me with a keen athletic ability, and a talent for swimming. I managed to stay afloat, but Ron was not so lucky. The fire slammed into another wall above us, vanishing in a shower of sparks. They faded away as they hit the water, briefly illuminating the side of the pool, and another door.

"I really hate wizards… Ron, you alright?"

There was no response. I looked at him to find him floating face down in the water, and I rolled my eyes. "Come on, man up old chap. We all take a belly flop once in a while, nothing to be ashamed of." He ignored me, and I poked him irritably. The water felt rather gloopy, and I looked at it more closely. "This isn't water…" I sniffed it cautiously. I'll admit, I was bloody useless at Potions, a fact Snape never hesitated to mention, but I recognised the smell of them. It was a vast pool of some clearly unpleasant brew. Naturally, I swam for the side of the pool instantly. I dragged myself out, and looked back. Ron was still there. I groaned; I really didn't want to get back in there, but selfish though I may be, I wasn't quite ready to just let someone die like that. Even Ron deserved a better fate than that.

See? I told you I had standards.

I swam back out, and dragged him to the side. I hadn't a clue how to do CPR, and I wasn't even sure if it would work under the circumstances, so I just left him there. I opened the final door with a weary sigh. It couldn't possibly get any worse.

Famous last words.


	7. And whosoever shall lose his life

Chapter 7: And whosoever shall lose his life…

Beyond the door was a bare stone chamber, lit by four lamps mounted on wrought iron stands. At the far end was a pillar of roughly shaped stone, about eight feet high. Standing before it, scrutinising it like a world-class art critic, was a little man wearing a large purple turban.

"What?" I said, frozen in the doorway, "Where the hell's Snape?"

The man turned towards me and I recognised Professor Quirrell, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You will understand my confusion. I had hardly listened to Neville's asinine theories about Snape going after the Stone, so the chances of me picking up the subtle clues that pointed towards Quirrell were up there with Dudley winning a Nobel Prize, or Hagrid buying a razor.

In fact, over the past year, I had barely registered Quirrell's existence at all. I never paid much attention in any of my classes and he was, overall, a rather mundane figure in the otherwise eccentric world of Hogwarts: pale, slight of build, with a strong stammer and never without his oversized turban. The only really noticeable thing about him was his smell: he stank of garlic, which rumour put down to his fear of being attacked by a vampire he had once encountered abroad.

"Snape?" he said, "Ah! So you thought to find him here? He does look the part, doesn't he? Always swooping around the castle like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect this miserable creature: p-p-poor s-s-stuttering P-p-professor Quirrell?"

As he spoke, I noticed something odd about the way Quirrell was standing. He had always been a stooped little man, fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his sleeves. Now his posture was very straight and dignified; regal, almost.

"Who _are_ you?" I said.

"Who am I?" said Quirrell, grinning triumphantly, "I am Lord Voldemort."

If I did not immediately soil myself it was only because I was too shocked to react. My mouth, unprompted by my brain, let out a stream of meaningless syllables. Quirrell, or at least the thing with Quirrell's face, laughed. It was a very cruel sound; cold and sharp, like the blade of a knife.

"B-b-but you're _Quirrell!_" I bleated.

"No, Potter. Quirrell has been dead for over a year. Observe."

The man I had known as Quirrell reached up and slowly began to unwind his turban. As he did so, dozens of garlic bulbs fell out and scattered across the floor. When he had finished, he turned his head and I saw that the back of it had been caved in. Thick, congealed blood and grey brain matter were mixed together with fragments of bone.

"He found me in Albania," said the man with Quirrell's face, turning back to me, "He sought knowledge of the Dark Arts; to see the things he had read about in books. He found _me_.

"I was less than a beast then; less than a ghost; mine was the basest existence imaginable. But I could still speak to him, after a fashion. The worm panicked and fled. And, in his haste, he lost his footing and fell down a cliff."

He spoke slowly, relishing the details; savouring the horror that he inspired in me.

"It is a very difficult thing to possess a human soul, Potter. It is much easier to take control of a corpse. And here I had been given a most unexpected boon: the body of a Hogwarts professor.

"Of course, it was not perfect. In this state I can wield only a fraction of my former power. Much of my magic has been spent slowing this body's decay, and even those enchantments grow less effective. See," he said, lifting the hem of his robe and extending a bare leg. It was pale green in colour and riddled with maggot holes. Patches of skin had come away, revealing the putrid grey flesh beneath.

I bent double, vomiting noisily, while Voldemort shrieked with laughter.

"But no longer," he said, "Tonight I will claim the Philosophers' Stone, discard this failing body and rise anew; stronger and more terrible than before. How fitting that you, the boy who brought about my downfall, should be here to witness my resurrection."

I tried to turn away, groping blindly for the door, but Voldemort was too quick. With a flick of his wand he conjured ropes that bound my arms and legs. I struggled, overbalanced and fell painfully on my side. Voldemort left me there, tied up like a Christmas present, while he returned to contemplating the stone pillar. He made passes at it with his wand, recited incantations over it, and finally resorted to screaming threats at the lifeless, formless rock.

Like me, you have probably realised by now that Lord Voldemort was a few Knuts short of a Galleon. My only comfort at that point was that he seemed no closer to acquiring the Philosophers' Stone. I was certain that as soon as he found the Stone he would dispose of me.

For a while Voldemort was silent. He turned and looked down at me like I was an unusual beetle that had wandered across his path.

"Stand," he commanded, dismissing the ropes that bound me. I stood up, which was a feat in itself; my legs were trembling so badly that they only just supported my weight.

"Come here," Voldemort gestured to his side. I obeyed. I could hardly stand, so fleeing was out of the question. Trying to fight did not occur to me.

As I approached, the pillar of stone began to change. I drew closer and the formless rock receded, revealing a life-sized statue beneath. It was a statue of me.

"Evening," said the statue, looking down at me from its pedestal.

"H-hi," I squeaked.

"Spot of bother?" said the statue, smugly.

"Err… yeah," I said, stealing a glance across at Voldemort, who was staring intently at the statue. I wondered if he could see my statue too, or if it appeared to him as a blank pillar. Had Voldemort been talking to a statue of himself before?

"I don't suppose you could… assist?" I said, trying to point discreetly at Voldemort.

"Nope," the statue shook its head. I had the impression it was enjoying itself, "I'm just the guardian. Besides, I'm you. And you wouldn't help if you were in my place, would you?"

"Of course I would!" I protested, "Come on, man, you're _me_! I'd help me if I could. I know I would!"

"Really?" said the statue, with a knowing expression.

"Ask for the Stone," Voldemort ordered me.

"C-can I have the Stone?" I asked the statue, acutely aware of the wand that was being pointed at my chest. The statue reached into its robes and drew out a long silver dagger.

"Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it," said the statue. It offered me the dagger, handle first.

"What does _that _mean?" I said, but the statue merely repeated itself.

"Do you see it? Do you see the dagger?" asked Voldemort, anxiously.

"Y-yes," I said.

"Take it."

"What? No!" I tried to back away but Voldemort raised his wand.

"I said take it_, _Potter," he snarled, "_Imperio."_

I was stuck, as surely as if he had turned me to stone. I could feel my arm trying to move; to reach for the dagger. I resisted but it was a terrible struggle, like trying to push against a heavy weight or swim against a strong current. My arm trembled as it moved but I could not hold it back.

I heard a strange noise coming from my right; a 'pitter patter', like droplets of water falling on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Voldemort's free hand. The flesh was sliding from his fingers, off the fingertips and falling in little pink globules to splatter around his feet.

My hand opened, slowly but inevitably, and took the silver dagger.

"Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it," repeated the statue.

"Now… strike," said Voldemort. His voice was faint now, and very hoarse. Before I had even realised that it was happening my hand was turning the point of the dagger around, towards my chest. I fought against it, sweat pouring down my forehead. The dagger trembled violently in my hand. I thought for a moment that I might drop it. Voldemort gave a great cry, almost a shriek. His face, Quirrell's face, was becoming thinner by the second; sunken and white, the skin dry like old paper. The lines of the skull beneath grew stronger as the flesh receded. My trembling hand stilled and the dagger resumed its inexorable path towards my heart.

I strained harder against the alien will that had possessed my body. Lights and dark spots sparkled before my eyes. I could feel warm blood dribbling from my nose and onto my lips. If Voldemort's curse had not been holding me upright I think I would have collapsed, but there was no halting that dagger.

"_Strike!" _Voldemort screamed and my hand obeyed. I plunged the dagger into my own heart.

As you have probably guessed, I did not die.

As the point of the dagger pierced my body, it vanished with a brilliant flash of light. Suddenly released from the curse, I staggered backwards. Looking down, I saw that I was now holding a large blood red stone in the palm of my hand.

"Give it to me!" cried Voldemort. There was a terrible smell of rotting meat coming from him. His free arm, fleshless and skeletal, dangled useless at his side. I stepped back and fell. In sheer panic, I thrust the stone into my pocket.

"Enough!" Voldemort raised his wand high, "_Avada Ka-" _but before he could finish the incantation one of his legs gave way and he collapsed onto his side. His wand rolled across the chamber. He ignored it; all his attention was fixed on me. I tried to scuttle backwards, away from that hideous visage; more like a skull than a living face.

"No! _No! _Not again! You shall not thwart me again, Harry Potter!" Voldemort screamed. He stretched his hand towards me and, for a second, his eyes became a brilliant scarlet. Then he crumbled: grey skin flaked away to reveal flesh, which in turn dropped from the bones, which finally became dust, all in a matter of seconds. A wave of dark magic like black smoke, stinking of decay and rottenness, surged from his corpse and washed over me. I fell back, certain that this was the end as I slipped into unconsciousness.

And that, kiddies, is the _true _story of how I saved the Philosopher's Stone from Lord Voldemort. There was no magic mirror, or 'power of love' schmaltz. I am sure you will understand why I had to bowdlerise it for my book. Not even children are bloodthirsty enough to enjoy a tale like that.

I awoke in the Hospital Wing. In time I would become very familiar with the rows of beds, the whitewashed walls and Madam Pomfrey, who exercised a tyrannical rule over the wards. Grey haired, with a sharp face and a sharper tongue; I never saw a bigger waste of a nurse's uniform.

"Good morning, Harry."

I turned and saw Professor Dumbledore sitting beside my bed, looking like a kind and gentle grandfather. He could play that role very convincingly when it suited him.

"Morning…?" I said, "How long have I been out?"

"Just over two days," said Dumbledore, "You suffered a very serious magical attack. Had Quirrell truly cursed you, you would have been dead long before I arrived."

"Not Quirrell," I said, with a shudder, "Voldemort."

"Ah!" said Dumbledore, as if I had just helped him solve a particularly knotty crossword puzzle, "That would explain it. Professor Snape suspected Quirrell of trying to steal the Stone at Halloween but I was sure that there was more to the matter. I suppose Voldemort had possessed him?"

"His corpse. It was decaying. That's why he smelled of garlic all the time; he was trying to mask the smell of his body."

"Yes," said Dumbledore mildly, "That must have frustrated Voldemort no end."

"Is he… dead? I mean, for good?" I asked.

"Dead? Oh no," Dumbledore shook his head, his long silver beard waggling comically, "The physical shell is gone but the essence of the Dark Lord; whatever survived after he failed to kill you seventeen years ago, that will remain. He has doubtless fled back into obscurity and exile; defeated, but not yet destroyed."

This was not a cheery thought. The idea of Voldemort lurking in some dark hole, nursing the bitterness of a second (unintentional) defeat at my hands, was chilling.

"Do not let it trouble you," said Dumbledore, seeing my expression. "You have saved the Philosopher's Stone, and put the Elixir of Life out of Voldemort's reach for good. The magical community owes you a great debt of gratitude."

"Not at all, Professor," I said modestly, trying to my best to preen while tucked up in a hospital bed.

"I am curious, though," said Dumbledore, fixing me one of those piercing stares that always made me feel like he was looking into the grimiest pit of my soul, "What happened, down in the dungeon?"

"Well…" I began. I was suddenly aware of an unusual weight pressing down on my hip; something large and stone-shaped resting in my pocket.

"Well, Professor," I said, "Voldemort never _actually _got the Stone. He made me take the dagger…"

"Oh!" Dumbledore snapped his fingers irritably, "A flaw in my plan."

"Your… Then it was _your _idea_?" _I said, indignation rising in my voice, "You came up with that statue, with the bloody great dagger and its mumbo jumbo about… about losing your life!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, looking rather pleased with himself, "That was my idea. You see, Harry, all the defences we had laid on the Stone merely tested a wizard's skill in various branches of magic: charms, transfiguration, knowledge of magical creatures and so on. So, for the final defence, I had to come up with something that not even a wizard as skilled as Lord Voldemort could overcome.

"Anyone who tried to steal the Stone would want it to make the Elixir of Life, or obtain great wealth. Even if they understood the statue's verse, that to gain anything of true value we must give up all that we hold dear, they could _never _put it into action and sacrifice their own life for the Stone.

"Alas, I never considered that they might have someone with them whom they could coerce into taking the dagger. A regrettable mistake."

You are telling me, I thought. You weren't the one sticking eight inches of razor-sharp silver into your chest, you sanctimonious old fart. But at that moment I was busy trying to combine humility with a suitably heroic demeanour.

"He… he made me take the dagger," I said, wondering if I could raise a manly tear if I bit the inside of my cheek, "But I fought him. We struggled… and then, well… I struck him. He got angry and tried to curse me. And then…" Unable to compel a tear to form I turned my face away from Dumbledore, hoping that this would have the same effect.

"You have done admirably, Harry," he said, "You have overcome challenges that would have daunted anyone, even a fully trained wizard."

"Thank you, Professor," I said, turning back to him. He was smiling at me. There was something a little odd about it. Was it entirely affectionate, or was there a subtle hint of mockery there? I could not be certain.

"You will be glad to know that your friends survived, similarly unscathed," said Dumbledore, "Although Ronald Weasley is likely to remain unconscious for a week or so." He looked across to the bed opposite mine. Pushing myself up onto my elbows I saw Ron there, sleeping peacefully.

"But that it is only to be expected," Dumbledore continued, "when one drinks several pints of the Draught of Living Death."

"The what? I don't remember him drinking any potion," I said, confused.

"The pool you fell into, after you escaped the Fiend Fyre," Dumbledore explained, "Professor Snape's contribution to the defences.

"Miss Granger is also in good health, although she was much exhausted by her efforts to transfigure the sand into a bridge. I understand that Professor McGonagall is very proud; a remarkable achievement, even for so gifted a first year.

"And Master Longbottom will not suffer any long term effects from the Body Binding jinx you placed on him, although he did say that he was most disappointed that you did not take him with you to confront Quirrell."

My poker face is better than most but how I managed to stop my jaw dropping at that titbit of information, I still do not know.

"I shall leave you to your rest," said Dumbledore, standing up, "I do not consider myself a timid man, but even I would not risk incurring the wrath of Poppy Pomfrey.

"What happened between you and Quirrell in the dungeon is a matter of greatest secrecy, which is to say that everyone knows about it. When you return to us, I think you can expect to find yourself in great demand. Goodbye."

Dumbledore gave me a wink and left the ward. I lay back, replaying the conversation in my head. I wondered how much Neville had said about what happened in the common room that night. Had he really covered for me? It was the sort of thing he would do, the noble ass. Or did Dumbledore know more than he had let on? And if that was so, why hadn't my behaviour got out to the other students? Could Dumbledore be playing some unfathomable game of his own? It was then, lying in my hospital bed, that I had my first suspicions about the old headmaster.

After a while I pushed those thoughts aside. Reaching under the sheets I retrieved the Philosopher's Stone from my pocket and held it up to the light. The adventure had not proved a complete loss after all.


	8. House Elves

**Chapter 8: House-elves**

We can, I think, safely gloss over the last few weeks of my first year at Hogwarts. Plenty of interesting stuff, of course, but you don't absolutely _need _to hear about the frankly ridiculous levels of totty I was getting. I made sure to focus my efforts on the seventh years, since it was of course quite probably the last time I was going to see any of them. Some of course were a little too prudish to consider a first year (never understood why; I was legal and willing, wasn't I?), however famous, brave and handsome I was, but to each their own.

By the time the end of term rolled around, I was actually sorry to be leaving Hogwarts. I know, I was surprised as well. It wasn't as if I'd been looking forward to going there particularly. However, it had rather grown on me. Oh, I still found the magic frustrating and largely pointless, but that aside it had been damn good fun. A plentiful supply of firewhiskey, plenty of willing totty, and the single best sport I had ever had the privilege of playing – ye gods, when I compared Quidditch to cricket!

And somewhat surprisingly, I found myself in two minds regarding my return to Privet Drive. The life of luxury I led there had been incredible, but muggle luxury did rather fade into insignificance next to the splendours of a Hogwarts party. Petunia would never be able to rustle up anything approaching the quality of food served at the castle, and although tormenting Dudley would pass the time, it wasn't quite the same.

In short, Privet Drive was…dull.

Well, you might think, knowing what I've already revealed about my character and what really happened that night in the dungeon, that a period of inactivity and dullness would hold significant appeal. And in a way you would be right; I had absolutely no desire for anything so invigorating (not my own phrase, of course, but Longbottom's. What did you expect?). That said, I had become accustomed to rather more fun than was currently looming on the horizon.

I needed advice, and on such matters there was only one place worth going: the Quidditch Collective.

You'll remember them, of course – the informal little club made up of the wealthiest, most talented, most famous and most fanatical Quidditch fans in the castle. While Quidditch was their life blood, I had learnt a lot about more esoteric pleasures there. On most matters relating to entertainment I would have headed straight to the Weasley twins, Ron's older brothers, but while they were smashing fellows in many respects, I wasn't quite sure I trusted them to help me out away from Hogwarts. They had a mischievous sense of humour – to put it mildly – and given the rather more rigorous legal restrictions placed on under-age wizards away from school, I was reluctant to push the boat out too far.

So I went to Cormac McClaggen instead.

He was a good egg, McClaggen. Shame what happened to him, but he would keep taking those bets. Chronic gambler, you see. A sad loss… Ah well, ancient – and irrelevant – history now. Anyway, I went to have a word with him a couple of days before the end of term.

"Harry old man, how're you? Ready for a summer's freedom?" In all the years I knew him, Cormac was never to be seen without a hearty grin. Almost as ubiquitous was a pint mug, which was generally filled with something stronger than you would generally find in such a vessel. Had a great head for alcohol, did Cormac. I'm not ashamed to admit that he could, and frequently _did_ drink me under the table.

"Oh absolutely, Cormac, absolutely. Get away from the grindstone for a few weeks, eh? Shame about Quidditch though, it'll be a real wrench."

"Pah!" Cormac spat, waving a hand airily. "Never you mind about that, Harry, we'll have a little get together at some point. Always do – can't go that long without a good game and a piss-up!"

"Really? Excellent, that's capital news!" Unusually for me, I was being sincere. "But – well, the Muggles, you know…"

"What's up with them?" he enquired, confusion furrowing his brow.

"They're just so _dull_. I thought you might know a couple of decent hang outs for a man about town, hmm?"

Never let it be said he couldn't pick up a hint when it was dropped from a great height. His eyes gleamed. "I know just what you mean, old man. Here you go." He scribbled something on a piece of parchment, and handed it over to me with a roguish wink. "Everything you could dream of, and they don't even want identification! It's pricey mind," he warned me. "Worth every knut, of course, but still."

"You let me worry about that," I assured him. "Money isn't a problem, believe me."

"Didn't think so, didn't think so. Enjoy it – might even see you there myself!"

As I wandered away to try and harass Ron into packing my trunk for me, I looked at the parchment he had given me. Moor Alley – allegedly just off Knockturn Alley. I had never actually been to Diagon Alley's bastard brother, and in all honesty I had no real wish to. It had a reputation as an especially seedy part of the wizarding world, and while I rather enjoyed a seedy night out, Knockturn Alley also had a reputation for violence of a darker sort. I had been assured that this was exaggerated, but owing to my…cautious nature, I was reluctant to experiment. Moor Alley though sounded promising. I resolved to explore it at the first opportunity.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

To be fair, my first summer as a wizard did get off to a decent start, at least. As I led the way out of the portal to Platform 9¾, Ron dragging both our trunks behind him, I was greeted by a glimpse of a pleasingly perky pair of breasts, just below eye level. They were attached to Ron's sister, who had clearly had a bit of a growth spurt since September. God bless that country air. She flashed me a wicked little grin, before turning to welcome the twins with a toss of her hair. I'll admit, I've always had a bit of a thing for redheads, and I vowed there and then that I was going to have her. But that will come later, of course.

It was at that point that I noticed the Dursleys. They were looking distinctly uncomfortable, which of course drew a huge smile from me. It would give me the advantage that I desperately needed. You see, although I was clearly no great shakes at magic, the days of what I now knew as merely accidental magic were long behind me. I won't say that I had perfect control over my magic, of course, but I couldn't rely on it to stage incidents to intimidate my loving family further. And of course, using my wand was out of the question. Sliding the shaft into my hand surreptiously, I approached them with a jovial grin.

"Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, hello there! So good to see you again, I must say."

"Oh. R-really?" Petunia stammered, flustered by my apparent good will. I flashed her a smug grin that I'd been working on, which showed more of my teeth than anything else. I thought it rather unnerving myself, and it achieved precisely the intended aim. They both blanched, taking a step away from me as if I'd sprouted horns. Under the pretext of shaking my uncle's hand, I showed them my wand.

"Remember what I could do before I went to Hogwarts?" I enquired, still speaking in excessively polite tones. They both nodded, uncertainly. "Well, just think what I can do now…"

Petunia clutched her husband's arm tightly, whimpering to herself, and I grinned at her again. "Glad to see we're on the same wavelength, aunty. Do tell dear Dudders what I had to say, won't you?"

"Of course," she whispered.

"Excellent! Just off to say goodbye to the chaps, back in a minute. Watch the trunk for me, won't you?" I left them standing there without a backward glance, inwardly chortling to myself. It looked like I had won myself two months or so of peace, and only with a few carefully chosen words. At times, I even amazed myself. I swaggered over to Ron and his family, looking very pleased with myself, and insinuated myself into the group.

"Mrs Weasley, an absolute pleasure to see you again!" I bent over and placed a quick kiss to the back of her hand. She clearly appreciated the gesture; for a woman so clearly past her best, she giggled like a schoolgirl.

"Oh, it's good to see you too, Harry – may I call you Harry?"

I didn't give a damn what she called me, if I was perfectly honest, but it seemed in my best interests to flash an agreeable smile at her. "Of course, ma'am."

"Ron's told us so much about you, I can't thank you enough for taking him under your wing." She ruffled his hair, every inch the stereotypical loving mother and dumpy housewife. How utterly ghastly. "He's a nice lad, just needs a bit of oomph, don't you, Ronald?"

"Gerroff, mum," he muttered, ducking away from her. I almost pitied him for a moment; even his mother thought he was a waste of space. Still, at least she was honest with him. Many children have gone wrong through dishonest parents (and yes, I have occasionally wondered what my parents would have said about me. From what I know of my father, I suspect he would have heartily approved of my course through life. My mother…not so much. Hey ho.)

"Oh, he's been a good pal, Mrs Weasley, one of the best. He'll go far in life, you'll see."

She beamed at me. I'd judged her well; a bit of old fashioned smarm, and a couple of nice comments about her family, and she was wrapped around my little finger.

"It's so nice of you to say so my dear – you'll have to come and stay for a while over the summer!"

Success! "Oh, thank you very much Mrs Weasley, very kind of you!"

"Please, call me Molly. You've met my daughter, I think?"

"Hi, Harry," Ginny all but purred at me. "I'm a big fan. A _very_ big fan."

Even more success! I did my best to contain my grin, and shook her hand warmly. "Always a pleasure to meet a fan. Always."

"I'm sure you'll all be best of friends!" Molly trilled inanely behind me. I was tempted to ignore her, but a lesson I'd picked up from my friends – and I hope you take it to heart – is that if you keep the parents sweet, you will have unfettered access to their daughter's pants. I smiled at her. "I'm sure we will, and believe me, I look forward to meeting the rest of the family."

"I'll send you a letter in a couple of weeks, ok, Harry?" Ron piped up. I'd almost forgotten he was there, but I nodded at him.

"Cheers mate, I appreciate that. Do keep in contact, won't you?"

"Of course!" He hugged me. It was a manly hug, credit where it's due, but still. He hugged me. "I'll hear from you soon, yeah?"

"Oh, absolutely," I told him. And I actually did, believe it or not. Had to keep up with the Quidditch scores somehow, didn't I? And yes, I'll admit – glorified valet though he may have been, I knew I would go crazy without some form of magical contact over the summer.

As I sauntered back over to my aunt and uncle, I happened to pass Hermione and Neville, who were saying a friendly farewell (nothing dirty; this was Longbottom, after all. Actually, despite Hermione's fetish for Quidditch players, I genuinely do not know whether she ever even tried it on with Neville. They were close friends though.) Neville turned to acknowledge me as I passed, and he grabbed my hand, pumping it up and down vigorously.

"Take care, Harry! Sure we'll see each other soon enough, don't worry. Off for a few weeks backpacking in the Alps before I do anything else, old friend of my parents – Alastor Moody, I'll have to introduce you. Capital fellow, you'll get along like a house on fire."

(Newsflash. We didn't.)

"And no adventures without me, you hear!" he continued with an easy grin. "Dashed brave of you of course, but you might let a few others in on the fun."

"Neville, I'll do a deal with you. If I happen across another adventure, you're welcome to them," I told him, sincerely. "Honestly, they're all yours."

"Well, that's very decent of you old chap!" He clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me to the floor. "Anyway, must dash! Take care, Harry, Hermione; I'll send you a postcard!"

I watched him go, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my back. "Pillock."

"Be nice, he's a decent guy. Unlike some I might mention," Hermione retorted pointedly.

"I don't know who you could be talking about," I told her, but my heart wasn't really in it. I'd given up hope of charming her successfully, but strangely I didn't seem to need to. She hung around me anyway, and I got the impression it was only partly because of the access to Quidditch beefcake. She'd been far nicer to me since my encounter with Quirrell.

"Well, maybe you don't. Maybe you do have hidden depths."

"Why do you say that?"

"You didn't have to cross that bridge." There was a strange smile on her face. It was almost friendly, which under the circumstances I found more than a little infuriating.

"I bloody well did," I spat at her under my breath. "You'd have told everyone what happened if I hadn't!"

"They probably wouldn't have believed me. But even so, you didn't have to. You still stepped up and took on You-Know-Who yourself. Maybe there's a decent person in there after all." She smiled at me again. "Have a good summer, Harry. I'll write to you."

I watched her go, nonplussed. For someone so bright, she was apparently an extremely poor judge of character. I shrugged to myself, and rejoined the Dursleys. "Come on then, let's go. Grab my bag, would you uncle?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

I'd expected to be bored almost from the moment I finished unpacking, but in actual fact, Privet Drive had changed for the better. In my absence, it seemed that rumours had started up about me. I'd apparently gone from being the rather stuck up boy who lived with the Dursleys to being the mysterious figure attending a secretive Scottish academy. This clearly suggested two things about me: that I was highly intelligent, and that I was loaded. Naturally, this made me rather popular amongst the well to do of the area, and I didn't lack for social invitations.

I didn't accept many of them, of course. Just enough to keep people sweet while still keeping life bearable. And while the air of mystery that surrounded me did garner me some feminine interest, I rejected all such offers out of hand. I was used to a finer crop than the scruffy, chubby little tarts who hung around the local pub, let me tell you! Nevertheless, it amused me to wander around the park of a morning, pretending not to notice the curious stares.

I couldn't really mention any of this to the few people I bothered to keep in contact with though. The great Harry Potter, reduced to preening in front of Muggles? Even I couldn't pretend there was anything terribly dignified about it. Relief came in the form of an invitation to the Davies estate, home to Roger Davies of Ravenclaw. The whole Collective was descending there, and while I didn't really know Davies all that well – I thought him rather vacuous, although I'm told he did well in classes – the chance to catch up with what I was increasingly thinking of as the real world was not to be missed.

It was a glorious week. Davies' parents had bunked off to Sweden for a safari (yes, in Sweden; magical creatures like a colder climate, for the most part. Merlin only knows why), so we had the sprawling manor house to ourselves. It was a bloody impressive pad, let me tell you! I tried not to seem too envious, but I thought it prudent not to mention that I was living in a semi-detached in urban Surrey. The setting inspired us to ever more Bacchanalian excesses, playing Quidditch all day and drinking till dawn. By the time I sloped off back to the Dursleys', my eyes seemed to have turned permanently red. A characteristic sign of good living, I've always held.

Somewhat to my displeasure, I found that there were guests occupying the front room as I arrived. Some deathly dull couple who Vernon was greasing up in hopes of signing a deal with – Mason, Basin, something like that. I popped my head round the door, just to see what Vernon would do now that the freak was around to make mischief.

"Ah, Harry. You're back early," he said, voice brimming with disappointment. His guest looked disapprovingly at him, and his wife politely enquired as to my name and health.

"Harry ma'am, delightful to meet you. Just got back from hols with the lads, you know."

"Are you joining us?" Petunia asked through gritted teeth. I let her hang in anticipation for a second, then shook my head.

"Dreadfully long trip, I'm afraid. I'm just exhausted. I'll probably head straight to bed, if that's alright…"

They were hardly going to say no, and Vernon hustled me out of the room as fast as he decently could. Smirking to myself, I wandered upstairs, and nearly had a heart attack when I spotted the hideous creature perched on my bed. Have you ever seen a house-elf? Wonderful creatures, but honestly, they look like the bastard offspring of a diseased monkey and a flobberworm.

"What the bloody hell are you?" I cried out, dropping my trunk.

"Oh, Master Potter, sir, I is Dobby the house-elf," the wizened little thing said, bobbing up and down in what I think was supposed to be a bow. "Dobby has a message for the great Harry Potter, sir."

The great Harry Potter, eh? I liked him already, even if I didn't know what a house-elf was. "Who from?"

The elf's bulbous little eyes crossed in confusion. "From Dobby, sir!"

"Oh…right, well get on with it then."

"Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!" he told me in very serious tones.

I snorted derisively. "Bollocks to that. D'you really think I'm staying here? Why shouldn't I go back?"

"Because Harry Potter will be in great danger!" he cried, his eyes like saucers.

Well, ok, that gave me pause for thought. As you may have gathered, the thought of danger did not fill me with satisfaction and pleasure. Still, I didn't know the bugger from Adam – it was possible, even probable, that he was telling me porkies. "And how do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"Oh, Dobby could not tell a lie to the great Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter is the house-elves champion! Dobby has heard so much about you from the elves at Master Davies estate!"

I frowned. I hadn't seen anything like this creature while I'd been away, and I told him so.

"That is because Biffy is a good elf, sir," Dobby informed me a little reproachfully. "Tis the mark of a good elf, sir, not being seen."

As I opened my mouth to reply, the door crashed open. "Potter, what the hell is all this rack…"

Dobby and I both turned to look at my uncle, who was standing there opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. I gulped, but rallied. "Was there something, uncle?"

"There's…what…"

"It's an elf, uncle."

Vernon shuddered – which went on for a while, given the amount of blubber he was lugging around – and gave Dobby a look packed full of fear. Then he smiled at me nervously. "I er…I don't suppose you'd mind keeping it down a little?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged, yes," I told him gracefully, and he nodded thankfully at me.

"Excellent, excellent…sorry to disturb you…"

Out of respect for his good nature, I held my laughter in until I was sure he was downstairs. Dobby seemed to find this very odd.

"So, a house-elf, hmm? What does one of them do then?"

"We serve, sir! We cook, we clean, we iron…we do anything that is asked of us!" He actually seemed pleased about this. How interesting.

"And what's the going rate for this service?" He looked confused, so I elaborated. "How much do you get paid?"

The eyes did their saucer impression once more. "Dobby does not get paid, sir! I am a house-elf, I would not want _pay_." He actually spat the word, as if it was incredibly distasteful. A magical servant who found the idea of pay abhorrent? I had to have one!

"Say, Dobby, how would you like to come and work for me?" I asked him. His mouth dropped open."

"Work…work for Harry Potter, sir? Dobby would be honoured! Oh, that would all of Dobby's dreams come true!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, quite…well, when can you start?"

He drooped. "Dobby is not free to leave unless permitted by his owner, sir. Dobby will have to punish himself for disobeying them already – but Dobby could not let harm come to Harry Potter!"

"Yes, you said…what harm, precisely?" I tried to sound as if I didn't really care, but obviously I cared a great deal.

"Dobby cannot say, sir. Dobby has already said too much, cannot betray his master, sir, however much Dobby would like to."

Hmm. An unknown, possibly non-existent danger – let's face it, Dobby clearly wasn't mentally stable – against the various pleasures and amenities of Hogwarts. No contest, really. I shook my head at him. "I'm sorry, Dobby, but I'm just going to have to go back. I couldn't stay here. And I'm terribly sorry you can't come and work for me – look me up if you're ever at a loose end, alright?"

I meant it. All the aforementioned qualities, plus an apparently inbuilt inability to break my trust, and he was clearly obsessed with me. A more perfect servant I could not imagine. And that was that. Expecting some ridiculous sob story about him trying to get me done for under-age magic? Well, he probably could have done, of course – house-elves are pretty damn good at magic, in their own way – but as I said, he was obsessed with me. The idea of me getting into trouble with the law because of his actions…well, such a thing would have been painful for him to even think of. He would probably be very offended by the portrayal of him in those stories, but it's not like he can read.

I settled back on the bed with my pipe, and inhaled with a sigh. It had been a great week, but I needed a couple of days rest. I'd arranged with Cormac that he was going to show me Moor Alley, and he'd promised me a show I would never forget.


	9. The folly of youth

Chapter 9: The folly of youth

The plan was as follows: to mark the end of the holiday, my friends and I would take rooms at the Leaky Cauldron the day before we were due to return to Hogwarts. We would dine, with a few bottles of dryadic wine naturally, and then slip quietly through Diagon Alley, into Knockturn Alley and thence to Moor Alley.

We arrived in dribs and drabs, some dropped off by their parents, others on the Knight Bus. I cajoled Uncle Vernon to drive me down. As soon as the pub's elf had taken charge of my baggage I settled down to some pre-dinner drinks with those who had arrived before me. It was the usual crowd: McLaggen, Wood, Davies, Flint, Malfoy and a few others. Ron was there too, although I'm damned if I know why McLaggen invited him. Probably thought I would have wanted him there. To be honest I did not care much one way or the other but Ron did tend to drink less than me and I could usually count on him to drag my carcass home at the end of the night. It's always good to have someone you can rely on to hold your head over the bowl.

Dinner was excellent, as was the wine. We enjoyed it so much in fact that we sallied forth from the pub two parts drunk already. We weaved our way along Diagon Alley, serenading passersby with that charming old hymn _The Unicorn has an Enormous Horn. _I was not so tight however that I had neglected to bring protection, by which I mean my father's old invisibility cloak (wizards don't have to worry about the other sort; magic potions and all that). McLaggen had warned us that the Ministry sometimes raided Moor Alley and I was damn sure that I didn't want my face splashed all over the front page of the _Prophet _being hauled out of a fleshpot.

Our singing grew more subdued as we swung down Knockturn Alley. There were fewer lamps here, creating patches of deep shadow where nameless things stirred at our passing. Hostile eyes glittered at us from doorways and behind grubby window panes. We put our heads down and walked on, as fast as we dared.

"There it is," said McLaggen, pointing to a narrow archway between two shop fronts. Inside the arch was a wall of smooth stone. Above it hung a carved wooden head, resembling a black man with a red lantern balanced on top of his turban.

"Password?" the head asked, looking down his nose at us.

"Basileia," replied McLaggen.

"Pass, friend," the head said with a knowing leer. The wall within the archway dissolved. McLaggen led us through, into Moor Alley itself.

The dominant colour was red; red lanterns above doors, red drapes at the windows and red dresses on the tarts parading up and down the balconies. We all gaped in wonderment, like the proverbial children in a sweet-shop. It was shorter and narrower than either Diagon or Knockturn Alley but there appeared to be more buildings on this one short stretch than in the other two combined. Bars, brothels, dance halls and pornographers were crammed together so tightly they seemed to be collapsing into one another. There was even a bookshop, selling titles that you would certainly never find in Flourish and Blotts: _Erotic Enchantments for Every Evening; Hung like a Horntail; Selwyn the Spanking Sorcerer; Witches, Wands & Whips. _You get the idea.

We started by trawling a few of the bars. Moor Alley tended to attract drinkers who were too shady for the Leaky Cauldron but not Dark enough to spend much time in the dives of Knockturn Alley. Here was where you found goblins, crammed twenty to a table and jabbering away like a bunch of parrots; nut-brown treasure seekers recently returned from distant lands; dragon hunters in their thick inflammable cloaks; dwarfs come up from the Cornish mines to blow their whole pay packet on a night on the town. Nobody gave a damn who you were or where you had come from. So long as you were willing to stand your round and not spill anyone else's pint, you were welcome.

It was in one of these bars that we lost Flint. He had downed a few more than the rest of us, and having more balls than wits to start with, he had challenged a dwarf miner to an arm wrestle. Ten seconds later someone had conjured up a sling for him and one of our party was helping down the street in the direction of St. Mungo's. The rest of just laughed, finished our drinks and stumbled out of the bar. It was time for the fun to really begin.

We were young, drunk and randier than a warren full of rabbits. We were spoilt for choice with regards to brothels, bordellos and bath houses, but McLaggen had other ideas.

"You don't want to be wasting your gold in there," he said, grabbing the back of my robes as I headed towards a busty whore who was beckoning to me from a nearby doorway.

"Leave off! I saw her first," I snarled.

"Look, you wanted me to show you the best night life in London, didn't you?" he said, "Then there's only one place for chaps like us, Potter: the Polyamour."

I bowed to his superior knowledge of London knocking shops and followed as he led our little party along the street. The Polyamour was a rather grand building, by the standards of Moor Alley: four stories high, the black timber framing painted a luminous pink. Two bouncers with more than a hint of troll about them loomed beside the entrance like grotesque doorposts.

"Evening gents," said McLaggen, sauntering past.

"Evenin' Mister McLaggen," they rumbled. The Kenmare Kestrels were clearly not the only thing that McLaggen had a season ticket for

Inside was a tastefully decorated parlour, with lots of red silk and velvet in the decoration. A large, old-fashioned bookcase dominated one wall. Several tarts were lounging around on sofas. They were pretty and shapely enough but I could not see why McLaggen had recommended this place above all others.

"Good evenin', gen'lemen." A large woman, both in height and girth, swept out of a backroom and towards us. She was wearing a high throated dress in blood red and enough powder to choke a manticore.

"Madame Putain," said McLaggen, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

"Cormac," she said, chucking him fondly under the chin, "These all wiv you?"

"My friends, madame."

"Only the best for our Cormac's little pals," she said with a grin that revealed her many missing and rotten teeth.

"So what'll your pleasure be, sir?" she asked, turning to me and drawing her wand, "We offer the most extensive range of services of any 'ouse in Europe."

"What sort of services?" I asked.

"Well we 'ave the standard 'Y'uman Female' and 'Y'uman Male'," she said, counting them off on her fingers, "Then, for a slight increase in cost, we 'ave our specialist range, including 'Non-y'uman', 'Animal', 'Mineral', 'Vegetable'…"

"Human will be fine!" I said, loudly, "Female, please."

"Certainly, sir," said Madame Putain. She waved her wand and a large, thick volume like a church Bible floated off the bookcase and into my hands.

"When you 'ave made your selection speak to one of the girls and they'll 'ave it brought through," she said. She moved on to quiz Malfoy about his preferences, leaving me to look through the book.

It was essentially a catalogue, containing pictures of every sort of woman imaginable. And I do mean _every _sort of woman: every colour, every shape, every size. There were thin ones, curvy ones, leggy ones, busty ones, blonde ones, dark ones, ginger ones, short ones, tall ones, older ones, younger ones. Any and every combination of tastes seemed to be catered for. You could come here every night for a year, choose a different girl every time, and you still wouldn't get through a third of the book.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to make my selection. It was rather distracting to have all those girls beckoning to me and miming suggestively as I tried to turn the page. In the end I settled on a sultry little Asian piece with a pretty, oval face and an arse to die for.

"Err… miss?" I waved to one of the tarts waiting on the sofa, "I'd like this one please."

"Very good, sir. That's a very popular choice, sir," the girl said, taking the book from me. She clicked her fingers and a slimy little house elf appeared with a loud 'crack'.

"A Number 78, Slobber," she said.

"Yes, mistress," the elf said. He bowed, disappeared, then reappeared a second later holding a little glass phial on a silver tray.

"Thank you, Slobber," said the girl, taking the phial. It contained a thick, golden liquid that I did not recognise. The elf bowed and disappeared once again.

"This way, sir," the girl said to me, gesturing to a small door next to the bookcase. I followed, looking round to see where my Asian filly would appear from.

Beyond the door was an old wooden staircase, tastefully decorated in dark red, that wound up to the top of the building. As we climbed I could see corridors branching off from each landing; more corridors than the building I had seen from the outside could possibly hold.

"Here we are, sir," said the girl, pausing on the third floor, "Would you like any refreshments? Celestial Champagne? Butterbeer? Firewhisky?"

"Err… firewhisky will be fine," I said, wondering at the impossible dimensions of the building and, more importantly, where my chosen girl had got to.

"Certainly, sir," said the girl, "I'll just go and fetch it for you. Your room is number eleven." She gestured down the corridor.

"Yes… yes, fine," I said.

The girl slipped through an unmarked door at the near end of the corridor, leaving me to make my own way to my room. I was so distracted by the strangeness of this place that I forgot which room was mine. I stopped outside room seven. That sounded vaguely right.

I opened the door and got a fine view of a man's arse going up and down like a fiddler's elbow. The owner of the arse was mounted on a young woman and going at her for all he was worth. The tart, who did not appear to be particularly enjoying the experience, spotted me over the man's shoulder and squealed in surprise. The man turned to look at me, which put him off his stroke. His face was flushed with his recent efforts but he was clearly very handsome, even with his wavy golden hair plastered across his forehead.

"I say!" he cried, "Do you _mind? _This is a private bedroom!"

I mumbled my apologies and stumbled backwards, closing the door behind me.

"Sir?"

It was the girl who had led me up the stairs, now carrying a bottle of vintage firewhisky and a pair of glasses. She took my arm and directed me to room eleven. It was very comfortable and tasteful; a screen for changing behind, a large round bed with red silks sheets and an en-suite bathroom.

"If you'd just wait here, sir," said the girl, placing the firewhisky on the bedside cabinet. She took the little phial the elf had given her and stepped behind the screen. I stood in the middle of the room, utterly baffled.

A moment passed and then the Asian beauty I had seen in the photograph appeared from the behind the screen, wearing a negligee that looked like it would vanish with the first gust of wind. Hell, a mild breeze would have done it.

"B-but… where's the other girl?" I stammered as she moved towards me, sultry as a tigress.

"Right here," she purred, slipping her arms around my neck, "Surely you've heard of Polyjuice Potion?"

I hadn't but I was pretty sure I liked it.

I won't go into the details of what happened next. Suffice it to say that she put me into positions that were as unnatural as they were stimulating. If I woke the next morning with a stinking headache, I was pleasurably sore elsewhere.

When I did finally wake it took all of two seconds for the golden afterglow of a night well spent to fade. First came the hangover, with all the tenderness and subtly of a frying pan to the jaw. Second came the realisation that I was still in the Polyamour, not my room at the Leaky Cauldron. Those arsewipes I called my friends had abandoned me in the fleshpot! But the third and most dreadful realisation was that sunlight was peering in between the heavy curtains. Not the soft, tentative light of early morning. This was the strong, confident sunshine of the afternoon; the very afternoon that I was supposed to be boarding the Hogwarts Express.

One glance at my bedside clock confirmed it. I was late; very late. I leapt out of bed and recovered my clothes from the various places they had been thrown the night before. The tart was gone, so I rushed out into the corridor, one leg in my trousers, hoping to find someone who might be able to help. Instead, I found Ron.

"Ron!" I said.

"Not so loud," he groaned, clutching at his head, "My head…"

"Never mind your bloody head! We're late. We're late for the Express!"

"Merlin's saggy scrotum…" Ron moaned.

We descended the stairs three at a time and burst into the parlour at a mad rush. It was deserted except for the house elf Slobber, who was dusting the bookcase.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, leering at us.

I was about to brush him aside and head for the door when I realised that there _was _no door, except the one we had just come through. The exit had vanished.

"What…? Where's the door?" I said.

"You gentlemen haven't paid yet," said Slobber, "No gold; no way out. That's the deal."

"Yeah, yeah: how much?" I said, impatient to be off.

"Fifty galleons."

"What!" I spluttered, "But that's all I've got on me!"

"No gold; no way out," said Slobber, grinning malevolently.

I stamped and I raged at the elf, calling him every name I could think of but he just smiled and returned to his dusting.

"Come on," Ron pleaded, "We've got no choice, Harry." Easy for him to say; he was always skint. I was paying for him too.

"Fine," I growled, throwing my purse at the elf's feet, "You little money-grubbing bastard."

"Much obliged, gents," said the elf, retrieving the purses and gesturing to the front door, which had quietly reappeared.

Moor Alley by day was dead and deserted. Nowhere was open, not even the bookshop.

"What are we going to do?" Ron whimpered, "We _can't _miss the train…"

"Let's get back to the Leaky Cauldron," I said, trying to think clearly despite my incessant headache, "We'll get our trunks and then maybe… I don't know, catch the Knight Bus to the station?"

"But we need _money_ to pay the fare," said Ron.

"Bugger. You're right," I said. We were, as the saying goes in the magical world, Moor Alley bankrupt. Looking back we should probably have headed to Gringotts and tried to get an emergency withdrawal but then that's the benefit of hindsight. You always know what you _should _have done.

Being visibly hung over, and not wanting to be spotted leaving Moor Alley, we returned to the Leaky Cauldron under the invisibility cloak. We collected our trunks as quickly as we could and headed out into Muggle London. I had come up with some vague notion about jinxing the ticket barriers on the Underground and taking the Tube to King's Cross, so we started down the street, looking for the nearest station. I can only explain what happened next by saying that we were still both partly drunk.

We passed a turquoise Ford Anglia parked outside the Cauldron. Ron paused:

"Why don't we drive to Hogwarts?"

"Don't be thick," I said, "Neither of us know how to drive." This was not strictly true; joyriding had been a hobby of mine back when I was at Smeltings. I had just never taken formal driving lessons.

"Hang on," I said, "We needn't drive all the way to Hogwarts. Here, help me with my trunk…"

We opened my trunk and I produced a wire coat hanger.

"What's that for?" asked Ron.

"Never you mind," I said, "You just keep an eye out for the owner coming back."

While Ron kept watch I put the invisibility cloak back on and got to work turning the hanger into a makeshift lock pick. True, I did have a magic wand in my pocket but knowing my general ability with spells I was just as likely to blow the car up as I was to unlock it. No, when it comes to car theft I am a traditionalist through and through.

A few minutes careful work and I had us in. Removing the cloak, I opened the door as casually as if I was the rightful owner. While Ron was loading our trunks into the boot I took the driver's seat and worked on hotwiring the ignition.

"I thought you said you couldn't drive?" Ron said as he climbed into the front passenger's seat.

"We only need to get as far as King's Cross," I said, "And who's going to notice another bad driver in London, for Christ's sake?"

The engine spluttered into life. I reached across, put the car into what I believed to be first gear and put my foot on the accelerator.

The car shot straight up, twenty feet into the air. Ron and I both screamed. I turned the steering wheel but that only made us turn lazily towards a nearby building. I fumbled with the gear stick but we just climbed higher. In desperation I began to pound the buttons on the dashboard.

Suddenly, everything around me vanished: the car, Ron, even my own hands on the steering wheel.

"Ron?" I asked, tentatively, "You still there?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I think so."

"Right."

"Good."

There was a pause.

"Harry," said Ron's disembodied voice, "I don't think this is a Muggle's car."

I gave this some consideration.

"No," I said at length, "I don't think it is."

Feeling very gently with my invisible hands, I found the invisible gearstick and the invisible wheel. Now I had recovered from the initial shock I found that the Ford Anglia was quite simple to fly. Whoever had modified it had added 'Ascend' and 'Descend' to the gearstick. Steering remained largely the same, although turning took longer on account of the wind resistance. I would have liked to experiment more with it but we had a train to catch, so I ascended above the rooftops and carefully piloted us towards King's Cross Station.

As we approached we could just see a thin sliver of scarlet heading away from the station and into the north. We had missed the Hogwarts Express. I swore, at length.

"What do we do now?" asked Ron. I could picture the moping, hangdog expression that he was wearing on his invisible face.

"Well… we've got a flying car," I said, "It shouldn't be too difficult to follow the train to Hogwarts."

"What about the owner?" said Ron. He had clearly been spending rather too much time around Neville Longbottom.

"We'll get it back to him," I said, waving my invisible hand in the direction of some vague future, "Let's just worry about getting back to college first, ok?"

"Ok…" said Ron. He did not sound convinced but, as ever, he was willing to follow me into all manner of skulduggery.

We tailed the Hogwarts Express for a while, making sure that we knew which line it was taking. We then ascended so that we were flying above the cloud layer. Very carefully, I ran my hand along the dashboard and found the invisibility button. I pushed it and Ron, the car and my arms reappeared.

"Now all we have to do is keep popping down to check on the train," I said, pushing my seat back so that I could stretch my legs, "We should be there in time for the Start of Term Feast…"

It was a pleasant, if rather monotonous journey, flying sedately through that fairy tale world of cotton candy clouds. Later on I gave Ron a turn at the wheel while I took a nap on the backseat, which conveniently stretched itself out for me to the size of a single bed.

Night drew in and the temperature in the car dropped rapidly. We tried to get the heater going but it seemed to be broken. The engine had also started to make some very unsettling grinding and choking noises.

"I don't think it was built for long journeys," said Ron nervously as the car shuddered around us.

"Let's pop down and see how far off we are," I said, putting us into descend. Dropping beneath the clouds we found ourselves flying over mountains covered in tall pine forests and dotted with shining lochs. The Hogwarts Express was winding its way through the peaks, visible now only as a silver trail of smoke. Ahead, on the shores of a huge lake, gleamed a tiny speck of yellow light: Hogwarts Castle.

"How long till we get there, do you think?" said Ron. I shrugged.

"Half an hour? Maybe more?" I said.

The minutes crept past and Hogwarts seemed no closer. The Ford Anglia's rattling and complaining was growing louder. We kept dropping by the nose and I was forced to put us into ascend just to keep going forwards. The car was shaking so badly it made my glasses jump up and down on my nose.

We had just cleared the final range of mountains when the wing mirrors fell off. The car gave a great hacking cough and then fell silent.

"Oh _shit!" _I moaned as we began to dive towards the gleaming white surface of the Great Lake.


	10. Tentacles!

**Chapter 10: Tentacles!**

Ron and I let out robust yells of manly terror as the engine died on us. I may never have applied myself academically but I'm no fool: I'm well aware of the effect of hitting water at speed, especially in a car. If Hermione had been with us, we might have had a chance, through her superior skill – although of course, if she had been with us we wouldn't have got into the situation anyway. As it was, we were surely doomed.

That was when I noticed the boats below us.

It was the first years. I hadn't realised we were so far ahead of the Express, and I took an insane moment to muse approvingly of the Ford's turn of speed. Then I realised that in a couple of seconds we were going to smash straight into about twenty sixteen year olds. Now I'd be the first to admit that I'm a bastard – a complete bastard, as a matter of fact – but I hope I've already impressed upon you that bastard or not, I do have some standards (I won't say morals, because _really_). I might be about to die, but I wasn't going to take innocent kids with me. Imagine the headlines, after all.

I will admit that I did flirt with the idea of steering the car towards Hagrid. He was a big enough target, and the imbecile deserved it after the scare he had given me prior to my arrival at Hogwarts.

I leant over and wrenched the wheel away from Ron, who was still gibbering inanely. Well, that's a little unfair; I was feeling much the same myself, but I was damned if I was going to disgrace myself in front of him. As I tried to pull the car to the left, hitting the ignition as hard as I could in the vain hope it might kick-start the engine, I screamed at him:

"Ron! Damn it man, concentrate! Do you know any spells – _anything_ – that might help?"

He just sank into his seat, closing his eyes and awaiting the inevitable with a quiet little whimper. Pathetic. With one almighty effort, I succeeded in rebooting the engine. The car began to flicker in and out of sight, and did swerve away from our collision course, but we were far too close to pull out completely (a situation I'm not unfamiliar with, as it happens…). Taking my hands from the wheel, I braced for impact.

The splash as we hit the Great Lake echoed around the hills and the castle towers. The wall of water we produced all but capsized most of the boats. We weren't worrying about that though; we were still speeding deeper into the lake, although slowing rapidly, obviously.

I found myself astonishingly calm. I know, I know – unbelievable, yes? Maybe so, but completely true. I have been nothing but honest with you; that is rather the point of a memoir, is it not? I still don't know exactly why I wasn't going out of my mind. I can only assume that I had gone through terror and hit the other side. Too paralysed with horror and fear to truly comprehend it. At least I would go with a certain amount of dignity, which was more than I could say for my erstwhile companion, still gibbering beside me.

The light seemed to vanish the deeper we sank, an all consuming blackness ahead of us. Rather appropriate, symbolically speaking. As I took one last look around me, however, I realised that I was still able to see through the murky water to my side. How could the light be around us, but not ahead?

About ten seconds after this thought crossed my mind we hit the giant squid, still travelling at a fair lick.

It was about as happy as you'd expect.

We left the water rather more rapidly than we had entered it, given a massive propulsion boost by the infuriated creature's powerful tentacles. The car was only mildly dented by its grip, but happily it had also performed some rough and ready maintenance on the engine. We weren't quite flying smoothly, but we would be remaining airborne for the immediate future. Naturally I remained calm and composed, and didn't scream at Ron to get us the bloody hell out of there. No, I said I was being honest, didn't I? Of course I screamed at him. I screamed at him until I was hoarse.

Then the squid followed us out of the water. The beady little eyes glowered up at us malevolently, and the thick tentacles whipped through the air, trying to snatch us back down. I wound my window down, and poked my wand out. A futile gesture, I know – my limited repertoire had nothing in it that could hope to deal with such a monstrosity. This hardly made me unique, of course; I doubted most of my classmates would have known what to do. I suspected that even Hermione would have been perplexed. Defence Against the Dark Arts seemed unlikely to cover such incidents even if the teacher was merely vaguely competent.

That said, I'd watched Cormac and Davies jinxing each other over the summer – nothing fancy, just a few harmless little spells – and I could just about remember the relevant incantations and gestures. As a tentacle clattered against my door, I poked it with my wand, spitting out a rough approximation of what Cormac had called the Tickling Jinx. It would be fair to say that it wasn't a roaring success; the squid shuddered for all of about half a second, letting out a simply frightful wail that I could only assume was supposed to be laughter. It was enough to get us away from it for a moment though.

We dipped down again, Ron now recovered enough to steer the bloody thing a little, and I was frankly amazed to hear the first years cheering us as we swooped over them. They seemed to think that we were trying to save them. I'm cynical, and pessimistic, but even I hadn't thought that people could be so oblivious to the blindingly obvious. They wouldn't have needed saving if it weren't for us, for God's sake!

The cheering left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, if we all came out of this alive, it would cement my heroic reputation pretty much forever. On the other hand… there was no way I could realistically retreat now. Not if I wanted to get even the merest sniff of a girl I wasn't paying for this year. Of course I was fairly sure there was no way we could realistically retreat at all given the state of the car, but that was a little beside the point. Wearily, I commanded Ron to bring us about. I've always known how to showboat, though I say it myself. As we charged toward the squid, I leant out of the window, yelling wordlessly at the top of my voice. Doubtless it sounded incredibly brave down on the water; only Ron and myself knew that I was all but pissing myself in reality.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_"

I didn't have a hope of truly paralysing it, unless by some miracle the spell managed to pass straight through its flesh and…whatever a squid has underneath its flesh and smack right into the brain – an unlikely prospect, I'm sure you'll agree. Sure enough, no such thing happened. I _did_ manage to clip a tentacle with it though; the suddenly stiff flesh toppled from its path, smacking another out of the way and crashing back into the lake. I don't imagine it would have taken long for the spell to wear off but the monster was already being dragged below by the deadweight. With one last defiant roar it batted us away with another tentacle.

The impact shook us to the bone, and the engine sheared off completely. We soared through the air in a wide arc, approaching the Forest at speed. For the second time in far too brief a span, I was convinced that this was the end. Surely we couldn't survive impact with the rather more solid trees?

The fact that I am writing this many years later may well have tipped you off to the fact that we did actually survive the impact. We survived, in fact, because the tree bent as we hit it. Initially, I assumed that it was simply a rather springy wood, perhaps used in wands or something. Ron's whimper suggested otherwise. He knew exactly which tree we had hit.

I let out a quiet, almost resigned sigh as the Whomping Willow's branches wrapped around the car threateningly. Talk about out of the frying pan…

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Severus Snape and I had not enjoyed our time together during my first year, as I believe I've explained. Clash of personalities really; I thought he was an obnoxious, unpleasant git with a poor grasp of basic hygiene, while he believed that I was a fraud who relied on my celebrity status to get through life. The main difference between us of course was that I knew we were both right, while he would never have agreed with a single word I said. He had put me in detention more often than the rest of the faculty combined

So there was something bitterly ironic in the fact that he was the one to rescue me and Ron from the Whomping Willow. The tree had ensnared us in a vice-like grip, and we were both screaming our lungs out as it bashed us against the ground repeatedly. Our escape from the squid, relatively intact, had pulled me back from the hinterlands of terror into a more manageable level, with the natural result that I was actually able to recognise the state I was in. Short on dignity, if more therapeutic. Fortunately for us, Snape had clearly been watching the firsties approach for some sordid reason of his own. He appeared almost out of nowhere, his bat like cloak billowing and his wand raised. I don't know what spell it was that he used but electricity charged through the tree, making it spasm like a goblin in the early stages of alcohol poisoning (not a pretty sight, I assure you, but one you're fairly unlikely ever to see). We were saved! We were also, rather less happily, thrown across the clearing, where the car rolled over several times before grinding to a halt. I threw a dazed look out of my window, and cringed. The Whomping Willow was looking less than healthy, and the turf looked like it had been subjected to a lengthy and brutal rugby match. Ron leaned past me, and whistled.

"Oh boy… Snape is not going to be happy!"

"Oh, you think?" I snapped irritably. "Where's the trunk, we might be able to grab the Cloak before he sees it's us…"

No such luck. I had barely had time to turn around before Snape was at the car. I swear he'd done some sort of magical deal to stop people noticing him.

"Mr Potter. Mr Weasley. What an unexpected pleasure this is," he remarked with a glare. I mustered every drop of poise I could, and nodded at him breezily.

"Evening, sir. Good summer?"

"Out of the car, Potter," Snape snarled with a twitch of his wand hand. We hastily obeyed him. He surveyed us with his usual majestic sneer, a look I had long admired despite its origin. Nobody else I have ever met has been able to convey such contempt with just a curl of their lip. "Well, you are to be congratulated. The Hogwarts Express is nearly one hundred years old, and the tradition of communal travel to Hogwarts dates back centuries. Never has it been revolutionised as you have managed today, Potter."

"Well, it was Ron's idea really – " My bluster was futile, as you might expect, but this was a rare occasion when I was happy to let Ron take credit for his actions, and I wasn't going to let him down.

"Shut up. Perhaps next year all the students should pair up to an enchanted vehicle and fly across the country in full sight of anyone who cares to watch?"

"I'm not actually sure anyone _saw_ us, precisely… it did turn invisible, after all."

Snape didn't seem impressed by this offering. "You are an arrogant fool, Potter. Just like your father. At least this time I will have the pleasure of expelling you." That was probably the first time he had genuinely smiled since he was fifteen and, as far as I'm aware, it was the last. We followed him into the castle fairly gloomily.

McGonagall was hurrying through the Atrium looking her usual cheerful self. She shot me and Ron a glare as she approached; she had never liked me.

"Severus, where on earth are you going? We're all needed down at the Lake!"

"Don't worry, Minerva – I think I've caught those responsible…"

McGonagall looked at him in confusion, then at us as comprehension dawned. I gulped, sadly audibly, and Snape sneered at me.

"Potter, am I to believe that this fiasco is your fault?"

I saw an opportunity here, and leapt on it. "Hardly, Professor! I think you'll find that we saved the firsties, nothing more!"

Snape laughed. Yes, laughter. Even McGonagall was surprised. "Potter, I doubt you could save yourself, never-mind several boat loads of students," he said with a curl of his lip.

How little he knew… "I swear, sir, it's the truth. Alright, we bent the rules a little in getting here, but it all turned out for the best, didn't it? Least said, soonest mended and all that." All complete rot, of course, but they had no way of knowing that. Not yet, anyway. I couldn't be sure that none of the firsties had seen us hit the water, what with the unreliable invisibility, but I was fairly confident at this stage. Given that we'd then at least appeared to come to their rescue, I was sure that any dissenting voices would be drowned out. I might be pleading my case to two of the most unsympathetic professors in the school but I genuinely thought I could rescue the situation. After all, not even Snape could read minds, surely?

"If you had nothing to do with it, then what so annoyed the Squid, may I ask?" Snape retorted, acidly.

I hesitated. I really had no idea what to say. Thankfully, Ron had an answer to hand.

"That time of the month?"

You can see why I valued his input. It did at least take the attention of me for a moment, as both professors united in informing Ron how utterly idiotic his response was, and how ashamed he ought to be of even thinking it. Which, I'll be honest, I didn't exactly disagree with.

"Mr Weasley's answer may not be strictly accurate, but who are we to judge what motivates such a creature?" another voice chimed in.

I'd been wondering when Dumbledore would arrive. I might have only met him once but I'd marked him down as a manipulative bastard there and then. It wasn't hard to work out. Nobody could hold that many political offices and not be a puppet master of some description. Have you ever met a truly honest and decent political animal? Didn't think so.

Snape was visibly restraining an urge to snap at Dumbledore. "Headmaster, obviously, I bow to your greater knowledge of these matters, but the Squid has been in the Lake for decades, and it has never done anything like this before. There must have been some external cause, and it seems obvious to me that it has something to do with this insolent brat!"

"Oh, on the contrary, Severus," Dumbledore replied serenely. He looked over at me. "I believe that Mister Potter is a hero. Perhaps not the hero we deserve, but the hero we need…"

Oh, there was definitely something off there. Just a slight hardening around the eyes. I was getting the distinct impression that Albus Dumbledore did not like me. I wondered why. Maybe he just disapproved of my lifestyle, although if that was the case he had never shown any inclination to stop me, or any of my friends. We weren't the first rich kids to debauch ourselves in and around Hogwarts. Interestingly though, Snape seemed to know what Dumbledore meant. He rolled his eyes in resignation.

"Maybe so, Headmaster. What is undeniable is that Potter and Weasley have either enchanted a car illegally, or stolen an illegal car. Either way, they are in dire need of punishment."

"No need to sound so excited," I muttered under my breath. I'll admit that I quailed under their combined glares.

"Professor Snape does have a point, Potter," McGonagall commented sharply. "Where did you get the car? I very much doubt you enchanted it yourself…"

Well, I could hardly complain about the assessment. But the day was taking its toll; I couldn't think up a convincing explanation for having acquired the car legally. I looked at Ron for inspiration, but all I got was a helpless shrug. It looked bad – flying an illegal car that we'd basically stolen. Then it hit me.

"Well of course, we knew the moment we saw it that it was contraband," I explained in ringing, confident tones. "We rather saw it as a public service, you know. Reclaiming dangerous property and putting it to good use, that sort of thing."

"Very impressive initiative, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly. "I must mention it to Cornelius, it's just the sort of scheme he'd approve of…"

Hardly a ringing endorsement – he was of course talking about Cornelius Fudge, one of the most famously awful Ministers for Magic that Wizarding Britain has ever seen. Given Dumbledore's very clear views on the man, it was becoming more and more obvious that Dumbledore was not happy about events. That was perfectly understandable; I just didn't understand why he wasn't threatening to expel me. Not that I was complaining, and not that I cared, so long as I got to stay, but it definitely struck me as odd.

"However," Dumbledore continued, "Professor Snape does have a point. Although you showed initiative, your actions were reckless. I leave it to Professor McGonagall to assign a suitable punishment."

"What are we going to do about the car, Albus?" McGonagall asked quickly. He shrugged.

"As we said, it is an illegal car, Minerva. Whoever owned it was doubtless a criminal themselves; I can't see them coming forward to try and reclaim it. I'll announce that it is here, and that if the owner wishes to reclaim it they can contact me: I'm sure I won't hear anything. And now, I think we really should get on with the Sorting, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, absolutely," McGonagall agreed sycophantically. She glared at the two of us. "Potter, Weasley, I will deal with you two later. Get to the Hall."

We fled, frankly unable to believe our luck.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

With the exception of the firsties, everyone was already seated when we arrived. The story didn't seem to have spread yet; we were met with curious stares, but not the furious whispers that would have greeted us had the tale of the Lake hit the rumour mill, whether in our favour or otherwise. This was excellent: it gave me the perfect opportunity to lay the groundwork for a positive account of the incident.

"Where the hell have you been?" Hermione hissed as I took a seat at her side.

"Oh, Ron and I have just been discussing the Giant Squid with Professor Dumbledore," I told her breezily. That got everyone's attention alright. Dumbledore was a very aloof figure to most, so any encounter with him was fodder for weeks of discussion. Meeting him about such an esoteric subject… that just sweetened the deal.

"Why were you talking to Dumbledore? What about the Squid? Why weren't you on the train?"

I held my hands up, nonchalantly stemming her tide of questions. "We weren't on the train because some complete pricks who will of course remain nameless -" I shot a vicious glare at Cormac " – didn't remember to wake us up this morning. We missed it."

Cormac merely shrugged. "Hardly our fault, Harry. You were really shagged out. Not surprising, let's face it. You really gave her a seeing to!"

"Well, I try," I responded modestly. "Anyway, I found us alternative transport, didn't I, Ron?"

"What?" He looked confused for a moment, as if he was going to say something contradictory and didn't quite understand the urge. Then he nodded amicably. "Yeah, he saw a car outside the Leaky Cauldron. Spotted what it was instantly."

I was impressed, not to mention gratified. Initiative from Ron – who would have thought? And in my favour as well. I'd trained him well.

"How could you drive to Hogwarts?" Neville enquired, a rare look of confusion on his face filling me with satisfaction. "And sorry old man, but I don't quite see what's so impressive about spotting what a car was – you grew up with Muggles, you're bound to know."

"We didn't drive, obviously," I retorted, laying on the sarcasm with a trowel. Longbottom flushed, and I grinned at him. "We flew."

There was a moment of incredulous silence, then Cormac let out a little whoop. "You flew a bloody car to Hogwarts? Potter, you star! That's going to go down in history!"

"Oh, you haven't heard the best of it yet…" I mentioned tantalisingly. I let the anticipation build for just long enough before dropping the killer. "The Squid attacked the firsties as we were flying over the Lake. We…well, I don't like to brag…"

Hermione snorted derisively, but nobody paid her any attention.

"What did you do?" Dean Thomas asked breathlessly.

"We went out for sushi!" I declared triumphantly. The reaction was not what I expected – I should have realised that sushi was not a popular dish amongst the Purebloods and plebs that I habitually associated with.

"Sushi?" Cormac asked.

"It's a specific way of eating fish," Hermione informed him drily. "Harry's trying to be funny, I think."

"Yes, alright," I snapped. "Not my fault if you lot aren't decently educated, is it? We attacked the bloody thing, what do you think we did? I wasn't going to stand by and just let them be drowned."

Before Neville clapped me on the back so hard that I'm positive he fractured my spine in at least two places, I saw Hermione raising an eyebrow, clearly dubious. After a moment though, she changed it for a vaguely smug smile. I never could get her to explain why.

I could personally have sat there drinking in the adulation for hours but McGonagall interrupted proceedings by bringing in the firsties, none of whom seemed too much the worse for wear after their earlier adventure. Several of them pointed at me, gasping and waving tentatively, and I basked in their appreciation. The Sorting was a tedious affair for those who had been through it themselves; I managed not to doze off but I'm fairly certain that was due to the trace elements of adrenaline still surging around my body. There were two new Gryffs of note: Ginny Weasley, who managed not to slip in the drool of the lascivious bunch of perverts I was proud to call my friends, and singled me out for a warm smile, and Colin Creevey, a small blond boy who wangled a seat just across from me. He fixed his wide eyes on me so intently that I still find it distinctly unsettling to remember – and I'm used to fanboys, believe me.

"Hi, Harry," he whispered adoringly. "I'm…I'm Colin."

"Hello…listen, just to clarify, I don't swing that way, so leave me alone, ok?" Alright, I leapt to a conclusion, but you should have seen the scrawny little tyke. Fortunately he didn't seem to understand what I was getting at. I had more important things to attend to, anyway. Dumbledore was singing my praises – not Ron's though. He barely merited a mention, in fact. You know, looking back, and despite the incredible misfortune he would one day cause me, I can't help but feel sorry for him sometimes. Absolutely no-one gave him a lick of respect, not even his family. I mean sure, he didn't deserve any, and he rarely seemed to notice anyway, but still. Being completely ignored by someone like Dumbledore pretty much marked him as a leper for the rest of his life, figuratively speaking. Still, all the more limelight for me I suppose, and nothing ever satisfied my appetite for that.

"As a reward for his undeniable bravery, I am pleased to announce that Harry Potter will be receiving a Special Award for Services to the School!"

The Hall rang with enthusiastic applause, and I stood up to take a bow, prompting a cheer from those in the Quidditch Set, amongst others. There were a few spoilsports; Draco Malfoy was seething quietly to himself, which just made it all the sweeter, and Snape had actually folded his arms. Also at the staff table, and applauding wildly, was an immaculately preened blond wizard, with gleaming teeth. It was immediately obvious that he liberally used the various potions and charms so common in the Wizarding World to enhance one's appearance. I was hardly one to criticise – I'd picked up a couple of charms to make my eyes sparkle a particularly effervescent jade, as opposed to their natural flat green, and my hair was quite definitely not glossy prior to my arrival at Hogwarts – but I was discrete about it. He looked like he'd used every product he could get his hands on. He looked vaguely familiar from somewhere.

"Who's that ponce?" I enquired as I sat down.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," Hermione informed me with a slight hitch in her voice. "He's a _real_ hero."

I looked at her balefully, but realised that she hadn't actually intended the barb; she was squirming in her seat, and I smirked.

"Good Quidditch player, is he?"

She frowned. "Yes, actually. Why do you ask?"

"Not much else gets you wriggling like that…"

Her blush was a thing of beauty. I looked back at Lockhart, and set out my stall early.

"Nancy boy, no doubt about it. I could take him." I wasn't just posing for the crowd; I really didn't believe that any serious hero would be that obsessed with their appearance. However, Neville shook his head in response to my boasts.

"Sorry, old chap, but I think Lockhart's just got the edge on you at the moment. Nothing to be ashamed of though! I mean, he's really worked at it, you know? Fought all kinds of monsters and come out on top. Haven't you read his books?"

"Why on earth would I do that?" I asked him.

"You mean apart from them being set texts this year?" Hermione enquired acidly, still stinging from my earlier jibe. I stared at her.

"How many books has he written?"

"Fourteen."

"So what's he doing here? He can't be that desperate for money!" I scoffed. Ron laughed dutifully, but I was met with shrugs from the others.

"Well, I suppose he's here to pass on his wisdom, that sort of thing," Longbottom suggested charitably.

"What, he's a philanthropist?" I let some of my natural inclination to doubt the existence of such a person show through in my words.

"Why not?" Hermione said heatedly.

"Balls," was my only response. She turned away in a fit of pique, engaging the Creevey boy in conversation. I turned back for another look at Lockhart. He was chattering away quite happily to Professor Flitwick, who looked rather irritated by it all. Given that the chirpy little midget usually had the attitude of a pixie on a Cheering Charm, that meant he was probably about one glass of Firewhiskey away from gouging Lockhart's eyes out with a dull spoon. A pampered, preening wizard, presumably rolling in cash, taking a teaching position at an admittedly prestigious school out of the goodness of his heart? A bigger load of bollocks I had never heard. There was definitely something fishy about him – I could practically smell it.

Naturally, I was already planning how to take advantage of it…


	11. It's not blackmail It's just

Chapter 11: It's not blackmail. It's just strenuous motivation

We second years looked forward with much anticipation to our first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the term. The girls wanted to get a closer look at Lockhart, most of the guys wanted to hear tales of his adventures and I wanted to size up the competition. As far as I was concerned there was only room for one famous wizard at Hogwarts. Dumbledore did not count, as he was unlikely to steal any totty from me.

Ron and I held back as the Gryffindors filed into the classroom. We slipped onto the very back row, while the girls scrambled to get as close to the front as they could. The class settled. All eyes were fixed on the office door beside the blackboard. Conversation dwindled into an almost reverent hush. Only then, displaying enviable timing, did Lockhart appear at the door. He was dressed in robes of magenta silk and was carrying a large cage, covered in a black cloth.

"Let me introduce you to your new teacher: me," he said, raising his free hand in a sweeping, theatrical gesture, "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honourary Member of the Dark Arts Defence League and five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award." He flashed his set of blindingly white teeth at us. There were audible sighs from some of the girls.

"But I don't like to talk about that," he said, "I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her." This was probably meant to be a joke. There were some sycophantic sniggers from the front of the class and a stony silence from the rest.

"Well… ahem," Lockhart coughed, "Let's have a little start of term test." A groan from the class. "Now, now. This just a little exercise to see how much preliminary reading you have done. Books away, quills out!"

Lockhart placed the covered cage on his desk and picked up a pile of test papers, which he distributed to us. If you who have read my children's books you will already know what sort of test it was. Here is a sample of the questions:

- What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?

- How many dragons has Gilderoy Lockhart _singlehandedly _defeated?

- What is Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal birthday present?

- What fatal disease did Gilderoy Lockhart discover a cure for while on a weekend break in Paraguay?

And so and so on. There were fifty of the bloody things! I have libelled, demonised and ridiculed many people in my published works but there is not a word of exaggeration in my portrayal of Gilderoy Lockhart, a man so narcissistic that he did not use pornography but a mirror. At least, that was the rumour. I should know. I started it.

I treated the test with the contempt it deserved, as did most of the other students. Hero or not, Lockhart had shown himself to be a self-absorbed fool and the Gryffindors were quite prepared to treat him as such. Some of the girls took it seriously though, with Hermione coming top of the class as per usual. Neville did quite well too I recall but I think that was down to his asinine notions of hard work and 'trying your best'.

"Not bad, not bad," said Lockhart as he placed the test papers back on his desk, "On with the lesson! My philosophy has always been that people should get out there and experience things for themselves. After all, if I had stayed in my study all day reading books I would never have been able tackle the zombie infestation of Milton Keynes. The full account can be found in which volume of my memoirs?"

"Sir! Four, sir!" said Hermione, her hand shooting up like a rocket.

"Very good, Granger. I can see that we're going to get on very well," Lockhart flashed her his most winning smile. Hermione blushed and dropped her gaze.

"As I said," Lockhart continued, "The best way to learn something is to do it. Today will be a practical lesson." The class perked up considerably at this. First years were not permitted to do much practical work. Second years, who were considered to have reasonable control over their magic, got to study more dangerous and demanding topics.

"Behold," said Lockhart, sweeping the black cloth away from the cage like the worst kind of hack magician, "the notorious Dunter!"

The cage contained a goblin-like creature, only smaller and much uglier. Its skin was a pale, watery brown. It was mostly naked, except for a few scraps of what might have been rabbit fur across its loins. It leered at us through the bars and made offensive gestures with its long, thin fingers.

"It doesn't look very Dark," said Seamus.

"Oh you think so?" said Lockhart, looking down his nose at Seamus, "Well let's see how _you _cope with it!" He slid back the bolt on the door. The Dunter leapt out of the cage and straight into the middle of the class

There was instant uproar. Students were rushing in every direction, some trying to get out of the Dunter's way, some trying to get closer to it. People drew their wands but nobody could get a clear look at it to jinx it.

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"There it is!"

"I'll get it!"

"Ouch! That was my foot, you idiot!"

"Where has it gone?"

I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on the desk, while Lockhart shouted to make himself heard over the babble:

"Catch it! Somebody catch it! Merlin's beard, it's only a Dunter!"

"But sir, it's a shape changer," replied Hermione, "It could be anywhere, it could be any – Aaagh!" What had appeared to be a chair had suddenly sprouted a skinny brown hand, which gave Hermione's arse a firm pinch. She spun round and sent a Body Bind jinx at it but the Dunter was already off, scampering under the desks. The jinx hit Parvati, who toppled backwards like a felled tree.

"It's gone under the desks," said Dean.

"Smash 'em!" yelled Seamus.

"No!" Lockhart shouted but it was too late.

"_Incendio!" _cried numerous voices and four desks burst into flames. I do not know who was laughing harder at this point, me or the Dunter.

Seamus led the second years on a hunt round the classroom, cheerfully smashing every piece of furniture they could, while Lockhart made an ineffectual attempt to stop them. Hermione and Neville did their best to put out the fires and repair the damaged fittings but this only made the hunt for the Dunter harder, as they kept giving it more cover.

"Stand back everybody!" Lockhart bellowed, throwing himself between the students and what remained of his classroom, "I shall deal with this fiend!" He drew his wand with a flourish, pointed it at nothing in particular and said: "_Duntus Revealus!"_

I am not certain whether the spell actually worked but the Dunter reappeared, sitting on a high shelf that had appeared to contain a row of dusty textbooks. It jumped down, shot across the floor like a bullet, and butted Lockhart square in the crotch. He let out a groan and toppled over with all the grace of a sack of coal.

The Dunter might have kept up the game all evening but it was laughing so hard at Lockhart that it forgot to transform. Neville stepped forward and trussed it up with a Binding Spell.

"Th-thank you… Longbottom," Lockhart wheezed, as two people helped him to his feet.

"Splendid, old fellow," I said, sauntering at last to the front of the classroom, "Just superb."

"Oh it was nothing," said Neville modestly.

"I was talking to him," I said, pointing to the Dunter. It was still giggling, despite being returned to its cage.

"I-I think that'll be all for today," Lockhart said, "Homework… read chapters eight through twelve of _Gadding with Ghouls_..."

And that was when I realised why I had recognised Lockhart at the start of term feast. I had seen that red face before, with the long blonde hair plastered across the sweaty forehead: in the Poly Amour. I had walked in on him while he was riding that poor tart. And like her, I now had him by the short and curlys.

I tried to hang back after class to discuss our mutual hobby but instead I was roped into Neville's cleanup of the classroom. We spent ten minutes repairing desks and clearing up burns, by which time Lockhart had hobbled away to his office. I left the classroom with Neville and the others as they headed down to dinner in the Great Hall. Halfway down the main staircase I slapped my forehead:

"Ah! I've left my quill behind! I'll catch up with you lot in a moment, okay?" The others shrugged and I was free to return to the classroom alone.

Lockhart was still in his office, sitting in an armchair with a bag of ice in his lap. The walls were covered in magazine cuttings, photographs and posters of, inevitably, Gilderoy Lockhart. It was like stepping into a giant, egotistical kaleidoscope.

"Hello Professor. How are you?" I asked, doing my best to play the concerned student.

"Better, thank you," he said. His voice still a little strained but he brightened up considerably when he recognised me. "Ah! Harry Potter! Marvellous! I had been hoping that we could have a little chat…"

"So was I, Professor."

"We have so much in common, you and me: a troubled past; victories over the dark powers; fame. Although of course, my career has been considerably longer than yours."

"Of course."

"That's not to say that _you _could not rise to similar heights, one day," Lockhart said, his voice dripping with patronising sincerity, "Diligence, Harry, diligence and hard work are what you need. I noticed that your scores on today's test were not among the highest. You really must learn to apply yourself."

"I'm afraid that I was rather busy over the summer. I spent quite a lot of time in London."

"Oh really?" said Lockhart, uninterested now we were drifting off his favourite topic.

"Yes," I continued brightly, "I saw a lot of magical London. There were whole districts that I never knew existed. I visited the John Dee memorial, the Museum of Magical History, Diagon Alley, of course, Moor Alley…"

"Oh… really?" Lockhart dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ah ha! Got you, you bastard, I thought.

"Have you heard of Moor Alley, Professor?" I said, still giving him my 'butter wouldn't melt' look.

"Well, yes, of course. Who hasn't?"

"Have you ever been there?"

"What? No, certainly not!"

"Really, Professor? Not even once?"

"What are you implying?

"I just wanted to know if you had ever been to the… Poly Amour?"

Realisation dawned on Lockhart's face like moonlight, draining all the colour.

"It-it was you," he stammered, "I thought… Impossible…" He rallied himself and fixed me with a look of stony defiance. "You can't prove anything."

"Oh really?" I said, dropping my milksop act and putting on my finest sneer, "Not even with the photographs I had the house elf take?" The lie was smooth and easy, as they always are for me.

"You're lying."

"Are you willing to take that chance? 'Cause photos or no photos, the _Prophet _is going to love this. A chance to destroy the clean-cut, upstanding idol of housewives everywhere. Rita Skeeter would bite her quill in two."

"You wouldn't. You'd be ruining yourself."

I shrugged. "I'm young. My reputation can take it. I'll just say that you took me there; that it was all your idea. I can see the headlines now: 'Lewd Lockhart debauches impressionable young hero'. Debauch! Isn't that a tremendous word?"

Lockhart considered me with a look of ill-concealed loathing, oblivious to the puddle of cold water forming in his lap.

"What do you want?" he asked, spitting every word, "Money?"

"Oh please," I said, perching myself on the edge of his desk, "don't be so vulgar. I don't need money, especially from the likes of you. No, I had some more specific favours in mind.

"One, I pass every Defence essay, test and exam for as long as you teach here."

"Agreed," Lockhart said through gritted teeth, "I take it there is more?"

"Two," I said, grinning at him, "you will volunteer to referee every Quidditch match Gryffindor plays this year. You will do your best to ensure that we win: awarding penalties, booking the opposition, turning a blind eye to minor fouls, that sort of thing."

"Anything else?"

"That's all. For now," I said, meaningfully, "I will let you know if I think of anything else."

"I'm so grateful."

"I bet you are."

I practically skipped out of the office and into the corridor, whistling 'The Unicorn Has An Enormous Horn'. It was not the favours that I had squeezed out of Lockhart that pleased me so much as the act of humiliating him. I had recognised Lockhart for the fraud he was as soon as I clapped eyes on him (we cheats and liars have a nose for one another) and, being a tremendous bully, I rejoiced at the prospect of demeaning him for years to come.

Oh yes, I was flying high on my way down to dinner. I considered pulling some skirt to celebrate. There was a smashing little blonde first year in Ravenclaw who had been giving me the eye every time we passed in the corridor. It seemed high time that she got a proper Hogwarts induction.

My good mood lasted me all the way down to the entrance hall, where it fled faster than totty from Severus Snape. Before me was a scene both curious and unnerving. Three of the hourglasses that recorded the house points had been smashed open. Only Slytherin's glass, filled with emeralds, remained unscathed. The rubies, sapphires and topazes from the other glasses had been levitated high into the air to form the words:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE

Beneath the words – dead or unconscious, I could not tell – floated the body of Argus Filch.

"Harry?"

I turned. Ginny Weasley was standing at the top of the stairs.

"Oh bugger."

That seemed to sum up the situation pretty well.


	12. Damnable Questions

**Chapter 12: Damnable Questions**

"This…this really isn't what it looks like!"

Not the first time I'd protested my innocence in such a fashion – I'd had a run in with one of the village girls while I was at Smeltings, and been caught by the Housemaster. I believe the story still did the rounds at the school, which I must admit filled me with no small amount of satisfaction. Hopefully though, Ginny Weasley would be a more trusting (or gullible) individual. There was certainly plenty of familial evidence to support my theory, as Ron has amply demonstrated even thus far.

Happily, my instincts proved to be well honed. She acquired an expression of wide eyed disbelief that made her appear to be far more innocent than I had previously believed her to be. "Well of course it isn't! You were about to do a Healing charm, weren't you?"

"Well yes, absolutely…" I looked down at Filch's body, and nudged it with my boot. He shifted, then rolled back. I pursed my lips. "Not sure how much I can do for him, I'm afraid. If only I'd been here sooner!"

She hurried over and wrapped her arms around me, her breasts pressing against my chest in a very pleasing fashion. "You can't save everyone, Harry. Even the best heroes lose sometimes."

"Really?" I was genuinely curious. I've never taken much interest in literature, and I obviously had little knowledge of real life heroics. "I thought the whole point of a hero was that they saved the day?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "A hero keeps on doing what they believe is right, despite overwhelming evidence that they're completely wasting their time."

I stared at her. I would never have believed that a relative of Ron's would be so astute. The cynical little madam was a girl right after my own heart, such as it was (and indeed is), and I felt an unexpected stab of fellow feeling.

"Ginny, we really need to get out of here."

"I know," she nodded, "We need to find Dumbledore. He'll know what to do."

"What? Oh, I mean, yes. Of course." I looked longingly in the direction of the main doors, and freedom, but there seemed to be little choice but to go with it. Ducking out and hiding now would look distinctly dodgy.

Before we could move, however, the doors to the Great Hall opened up, and a mighty throng of students came out, a happy buzz of conversation hanging over them. It soon vanished as they saw the spectacle: the great Harry Potter, standing over the body of the caretaker, and a deeply unsettling message adding colour to proceedings. I suppose I ought to be grateful for small mercies; there appeared to be no sign of that berk Colin Creevey. I'd still be living that photo down if he had been there. Uncertain what else I could do, I flashed them my most dazzling grin. It failed to have them cooing over me as it might ordinarily have done. Amazing how fickle people can be in difficult circumstances, isn't it?

"Make way, make way!" There was a minor scuffle in the midst of the crowd, and the Head Boy, Percy Weasley revealed himself. My heart sank. To this day he is the one member of the Weasley family I have never managed to charm or pal around with. Mind you, once he started making a career out of critiquing cauldron bottoms I gave him up as a lost cause, and gladly. Have you ever heard of a job so utterly mindless? He stared at the scene, taking in Filch's body in silent shock.

"I'd just like to make it clear that he was like this when I got here," I said, getting my side of the story in there as quickly as possible. Percy glowered at me.

"We'll see about that, won't we? I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will be very interested in what you have to say for yourself!"

I admit it, I winced, and in public too. I was sure he would be as well, and so soon after the aftermath of the whole flying car debacle. I looked back at Filch. Chances are Dumbledore wouldn't be quite so lenient this time. While I didn't give a fig for his good opinion, particularly, I was very aware that most of Wizarding Britain valued it very highly.

And then the man himself arrived, flanked by the twin gargoyles of Snape and McGongall. Percy tried to stick his oar in to blacken my name, but – gratifyingly – Dumbledore ignored him, bending over Filch and waving his wand over him. He muttered some form of goobledegook (by which I mean I wasn't familiar with the spells, not that he was talking Goblin), and Filch started glowing. For a moment, he looked like he'd eaten one of the Weasley twins' sweets, and I had to restrain a nervous giggle. That really wouldn't have looked good!

Snape was examining the floating crystals, distaste practically carved onto his face. He caught me watching him, and clenched his fist meaningfully. Naturally, I looked away hurriedly. It had got me thinking though: what on earth was the Chamber of Secrets? I vaguely recalled hearing the term before, as part of some cheesy – not to mention crude – pick up line (it didn't work. Obviously) but I had no idea what it actually referred to.

"Harry?" Dumbledore was looking at me, and I hastily acquired my best impression of keenness and willingness to help. "I know that you did not do this. The magic involved is quite beyond you." There was a meaningful beat. "Or any student within this castle, of course. However, for the sake of the official record," – by which he meant the Hogwarts rumour mill, which would practically have orgasmed over this little episode, given half the chance – "perhaps you could account for your movements this evening?"

I must confess, dear reader, that it was an effort to keep the glee I was feeling from my face. This couldn't have happened at a better time! Or to a more deserving person, but that's a separate issue. The first time I needed an alibi, and I'd just finished setting Lockhart up as, not to put too fine a point on it, my bitch, for the foreseeable future at least. I schooled my expression into concerned consideration though.

"Tonight sir? Well, I've really only been talking to Professor Lockhart. We've got _so _much in common, you know. Fascinating chap. I came straight here afterwards, which was when I found…well, this."

Dumbledore's eyebrow had been raised sceptically at my enthusiasm for Lockhart, and I was suddenly struck by the notion that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't the only one who thought Lockhart was a fraudulent git. Which was satisfying, but did beg the question of why he had been hired…maybe (and isn't this a revolting notion) Dumbledore was one of Lockhart's legion of admirers.

"Is that correct, Gilderoy?"

I hadn't realised he had arrived. Every eye in the hall turned to him, and he gulped. This time, I couldn't repress a small grin. It was probably the first time in his life that he hadn't been happy to be the centre of attention. He ran his finger round his collar, and put on a shaky smile. "Yes. Yes, indeed. Just a little 'getting to know you' chinwag, you know."

Dumbledore nodded. "Well, that all seems clear enough. Harry, did you do anything when you got here?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. Then I realised my error. "Well, what I mean is, I was about to try and heal him. Couldn't just let the poor chap lie there, you know."

"Of course," Dumbledore remarked. "Very commendable of you."

"Albus, are you seriously going to leave it at that?" Snape hissed, waving his hand at me. "This is the second time in a week that Potter has been involved in something shady! And this is far more serious than a breach of the Statute – we are talking about assault!"

"Severus," Dumbledore said with a hint of reproach, "You know as well as I do that Harry could not be responsible for this. Remember your history."

Now that was an intriguing little titbit. Had something like this happened before? And then I gave myself a quick mental slap on the wrist. I did not want to get involved in this, not if the opening gambit had been to put Filch in a coma or worse. For a moment, Snape looked like he was going to say something else, but he seemed to remember that this time, we had an audience. He stood up straight, folded his arms, and concentrated on looming. It was possibly too late; whispers were rustling through the crowd at an incredible speed. I sensed my stock regaining proper balance once more, and breathed a sigh of relief.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Naturally, if disappointingly, I did not receive my usual cheerful welcome for the next few days. Few people actually believed I had done that to Filch, not after Dumbledore's words and Lockhart's testimony, but I still had an unsettling air about me. I drowned it out by getting stinking drunk as often as possible. This wasn't a coping mechanism, you understand. It was just a typical night with the lads from the Quidditch set. I did worry about it all, of course, because I hardly wanted to become a social pariah, but I couldn't let people see it getting to me. I was desperately hoping for another attack to occur that I would clearly have had nothing to do with, so that my name could be cleared.

My chums in Gryffindor stood by me, of course. Ron because he didn't have the brains to think I might be lying about it (and, I suppose, because his sister was vigorously declaring my innocence to anyone who would listen, bless her). Neville because it didn't occur to him that a fellow Gryff might be anything less than totally noble and heroic. Hermione because she knew I was too…hands off, shall we say, to do something like that. Cormac, sterling fellow that he was, spent much of his time – when not engaged in boisterous challenges, Quidditch, boozing or shagging (which didn't leave him much time for anything else, as I'm sure you can imagine) – vigorously proclaiming the sheer idiocy of believing that I was anything other than a gentleman, hero, and all round decent chap, and that he would duel anyone who said otherwise.

Not many people disagreed with him to his face, at least.

After a while though, in which time no further attacks had taken place, people began to talk of other things. Well, most people – Hermione was still wittering on about the Chamber of Secrets to anyone who would listen, having read all about it in 'Hogwarts: a History'. Merlin, the number of times she read through that book…I never bothered myself, of course, but from what I know of Hermione I'm half convinced that she read it once, memorised it verbatim, then replaced the pages with the finest Quidditch erotica she could lay her hands on (so to speak…). She really loved that book. She'll probably ask to be buried with it.

But I digress.

As I was saying, my stock levelled out, if it didn't actually rise, over the next few weeks. It helped that Lockhart was enthusiastically palling up to me at every opportunity, as I'd threatened him with exposure in a very real sense if he didn't try and boost my standing. That little boot-licker Creevey had managed to get a snap of the two of us together, and it was doing the rounds faster than he could print extra copies (you'll surely know the photo I mean; I had it written about in the 'official' version of my time at Hogwarts. In reality though, Lockhart was the uncomfortable one.) I'd been unbelievably irate about this little scheme when I first heard about it, but I'd soon realised that there was no reason I couldn't get a cut of the proceedings myself. I know, I know, you'll think me a bully – and you'd usually be right – but Creevey didn't care, so long as he had money for inks and papers. He went on to become a professional photographer, I believe. 'Art', if you know what I mean.

Sadly, this was all before my first encounter with those lovely, sensitive types who went on to become professional thugs: the Aurors.

I freely admit, I have little tolerance for the nitty-gritty of duelling and associated activities, and while I can always find a use for those who excel at it, and can be discreet about their employment, it will probably come as little shock to you to find out that I loathed the Aurors, to a man. Well, ok, I didn't actually _loathe_ the infamous Nymphadora Tonks, but she hadn't had the fun drilled out of her, and it still wouldn't be quite fair to say I considered her a bosom friend. And I suppose Wcyliffe had a couple of admirable qualities…but really, we're talking about the crack squad of elite wizards who eventually employed Ron. I mean, for God's sake.

Obviously, one did not often encounter Aurors in the day to day events at Hogwarts. Apparently, a grotty little cleaner being attacked was grounds for official investigation though. And so, one fine afternoon, I was called away from my studies to discuss matters with two Aurors.

They immediately struck me as Aurors for which the term 'Good Cop Bad Cop' could have been coined. One – older, broader, burlier, and clearly struggling with an anger management problem – cracked his knuckles as I walked into Dumbledore's office, practically growling at me. I ignored him as best I could, examining his companion, a blond man with a sly smile. Dumbledore beamed at me as I sat down.

"Harry, good afternoon. A pleasure to see you, as always."

"Good afternoon, sir!" I said, matching his smile. I thought it probably worth my while to suggest to the Aurors that Dumbledore and I were great pals. They would be considerably less likely to go hard on me, if they thought I had influential friends. "It's been too long. What can I do for you today?"

"I told you he was a good lad, didn't I, Samuel?" Dumbledore said to the younger Auror. "Always so eager to help."

"Yes, very admirable…" this Samuel replied, looking dubiously at me. "Afternoon, Mr Potter. My name's Tyler. Samuel Tyler, of the Aurors."

"Hunt," barked the other Auror, now standing behind me. I jumped in my seat, before turning to face him. He leered down at me, his face racked with the pockmarks that spoke of a hard life. Or, maybe, a gloriously debauched life. Or possibly, a combination of the two. Probably both, I decided.

"I beg your pardon?" I enquired politely. He glared at me once more.

"Hunt. Dean Hunt. Auror, and former owner of a highly valuable, stylish, and well designed Ford Anglia."

I gulped. I couldn't help it. That explained his sour expression, at least. "Ah. That was yours?"

"Oh yes!"

"He's very protective of his transport," Tyler murmured behind me. I turned to look at me, and Hunt barked in my ear.

"That was Ministry property! Who gave you the right to lay your hands on it?"

"It was an emergency!" I protested feebly. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Well, since you ask…" Hunt grasped my shoulder in a vice like grasp, and I was suddenly intensely, profoundly grateful for Dumbledore's presence. I had a suspicion that Hunt might have been even more physical if we had been alone. I looked in trepidation at Dumbledore's fine old oak desk, and shuddered. In the meantime, Hunt began to real off a long, long list of alternative courses of action. Dumbledore and Tyler occasionally nodded sagely.

"…and you could have hopped on the scaly bitch and ridden her all the way to Scotland!" Hunt finished with a bellow. I leant back, staring. The man had a talent, no doubt about it. I was almost tempted to applaud.

"Are you quite finished?" Tyler snapped at his companion. Hunt growled, turning away and cracking his knuckles again. Tyler sighed and looked at me, plastering an utterly pathetic attempt at a friendly grin on his face. I met his gaze with a false smile of my own, and I like to think that I was rather better at it.

"Professor Dumbledore has already told us what happened, of course, but we're interested in hearing your own account. Just for the records, of course," Tyler explained.

Bollocks it was for the records. I was no fool: they wanted to see if they could solve a tricky case without any work – a frame up. While I respected the sentiment, there was no way they were doing it to me! I knew what I wanted to say, and I was sticking to it. They'd have to get up far earlier in the morning to pull the flying carpet out from under my feet. I parroted the story that I'd fed everyone else, insinuating that I had been mere moments away from being a damn hero, and bluffed my way through all their questions. Tyler looked more and more disgruntled as the questions went on, while Hunt barely commented, interjecting only with barbed remarks about my character. I couldn't really blame him (although I resolved to take extensive revenge against him nevertheless, of course.) After a while, Tyler simply sat back, throwing his quill down with a disgruntled look at me. I smiled smugly.

"Is there anything else, gentlemen?" Dumbledore asked, his voice positively oozing faux-sincerity. Hunt's lips curled into an ugly expression, and he leant over, peering at me intently.

"We'll be keeping a close eye on you, sonny-jim. Understand? You have my complete attention."

I certainly did. I cursed my bad luck in stealing an official car. I'd anticipated maybe having to fork out for repairs and so forth, maybe pay the owner a visit and flash the Potter Smile at him, but unless these Aurors were rather more corrupt than they seemed to be, I was going to have them breathing over my shoulder for most of my life.

Well, I was hardly going to let that happen, was I?


	13. Family matters

Chapter 13: Family matters

It was my idea to start a Duelling Club at Hogwarts. You might ask why. After all I was no great shakes with a wand at the best of times, let alone in a fight. As I have already said, _Expelliarmus_ is the only duelling spell I ever truly mastered. I am also an unashamed coward; I have fled off more battlefields than most people ever march onto.

There were, however, some very good reasons for me to encourage a Duelling Club. First, young witches go mad for a duellist. I had firsthand experience of this following my duel with Malfoy in first year. Never mind that we both legged it as soon as Filch poked his nose through the door: the story had got around that I had fought a real, no-holds barred duel. After that I was in such demand that I wore out my mattress. I hoped to repeat this feat by wowing the ladies with a display of prowess on the public stage, as well as enhancing my (undeserved) reputation as a man of action.

My plan was to use Lockhart as my cat's-paw. First, I browbeat him into suggesting to Dumbledore that he start the Duelling Club. Then, during the first meeting, he was to invite me up to give a little demonstration to the others. I would then proceed to wipe the floor with his arse. Victory won, and looking suitably embarrassed, I would step down from the platform and depart meekly from the hall. Lockhart could then carry on with the Club or let it fold. I did not care. I would have just publically trounced one of the most celebrated duellists of the day. After that nobody was going to want to be opponent number two.

To achieve this little coup, I called in a favour from the college's premier troublemakers: the Weasley twins. I had recently used my Invisibility Cloak to hide George from the wrath of McGonagall as we were returning from a post-curfew trip to the Hog's Head, so they were more than happy to help.

"It's goblin-made," I explained to Lockhart, showing him the shirt of mail that the twins had stolen from the castle armoury, "I can wear it under my robes. Nobody will notice. It's enchanted to reflect spells back at an attacker. When we get up on the platform we'll throw some pretty lights at each other, put on a bit of a show, and then you can try to stun me. The spell will bounce back and knock you flat. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Lockhart growled, seething with impotent rage.

"Good man," I said, smiling. I was about to leave but turned back at the office door:

"It probably goes without saying but if you tell anybody about the plan, or try to change it during the duel, I will ruin you."

"I know!" snapped Lockhart.

"I just wanted to double check," I said, grinning. Beating Lockhart in front of my peers would be enjoyable. Forcing him to beat himself doubly so.

Interest in the Club was high, partly because of Lockhart's fame and the prestige of duelling among wizards but mainly because of the Chamber of Secrets. I was not terribly interested in it, so long as I was not the target of the next attack, but I could not help gathering snippets of information through rumours and general conversation. The Chamber was a secret room, hidden in the ever shifting interior of Hogwarts, which contained some sort of monster. It had been left there by Salazar Slytherin himself, one of the founding fathers of the college, and only his true Heir would be able to find the creature and its lair. Serious magical historians dismissed the Chamber as a legend but nobody paid any attention to them. When your history books contain things like goblin wars and the Baby Eating Teapot Plague of 1749 you can believe anything is true, and people did. People avoided walked the castle corridors alone and everybody was noticeably jumpier. I would imagine that Dumbledore welcomed Lockhart's (read, my) suggestion to form a club. Better that the students get some basic training before some poor bugger had his ears turned into custard or something.

So it was that the first meeting of the Hogwarts Duelling Club took place in the Great Hall on a Thursday evening. The tables were moved back to clear the floor and a long, narrow stage like a fencing _piste_ was conjured up where the staff table usually stood. By the time we were ready to start it looked as if more than half the school was in attendance, all keen to hex their friends for fun. I was very happy to see so many there: the bigger the audience, the greater Lockhart's humiliation.

There was only one person there who I would have wished away. Severus Snape had insisted on helping Lockhart run the Duelling Club. I had always thought that Snape was too shrewd by half. He had probably got the measure of Lockhart and was afraid that he would get a student killed if left unsupervised. Snape's presence was an irritation but it did not change my plan.

"Attention everybody!" cried Lockhart, climbing up on to the stage. He was wearing a set of crisp white robes; the standard uniform for a sporting duellist.

"I would like to welcome everybody to the first meeting of this Duelling Club," he continued, "I can't tell you how happy I am to share even a little of my experience with you. For details, please consult my published works."

This was greeted by a sycophantic titter from the girls and a stony silence from the guys. Lockhart pressed on regardless, with the sort of desperate cheeriness of a man determined to get an unpleasant experience over with as soon as possible:

"I thought we should start with a little demonstration of basic wand work and proper duelling etiquette. Would anybody care to volunteer?"

A thicket of hands sprang up. Lockhart made a pretence of scanning the room before settling on me.

"Harry! Why don't you come up? We'll show 'em how it's –"

"If I might make a suggestion, Professor?"

All eyes turned to Snape.

"Yes, Severus?" said Lockhart.

"Perhaps it would be more appropriate if we used two students for the first demonstration?" said Snape mildly,

"Oh I think Harry will do just fine," said Lockhart quickly, a look of desperation creeping into his eyes. He was obviously terrified that I would blame him if the plan fell through and rat him out to the _Prophet _in revenge.

"Come now, Gilderoy," said Snape, slightly more forcibly. "Pitting a teenage boy against a… formidable opponent like you is hardly sporting, is it? Might I suggest a student of his own age? Malfoy, for example?"

"Y-yes… Yes, that sounds much better," said Lockhart. He was still smiling but he kept glancing at me with eyes that pleaded for understanding. Inside I was fuming but I kept my outward expression indifferent.

"Whatever you say, Professor," I said to Snape. Had the greasy bastard somehow worked out my plan? I would not put it past him. He was as shrewd as a fox and knew my dishonest nature as well as I did. Or he might have done it simply for devilment. Torturing me was a favourite pastime of his.

Malfoy and I took our places on the stage. He looked eager and aggressive. I did my best to look cool but in truth I was almost frantic with nerves. I did not know how good Malfoy actually was. I knew I was in pretty poor shape. If he was clumsy, and I was lucky, I could probably disarm him. The goblin mail, hidden beneath my robes, would reflect a direct attack but what if he did something unexpected like tie me up or play tricks with my mind? I decided that I would just have to improvise and, if I could not beat Malfoy, try to lose with flair.

Lockhart and Snape talked us through the correct duelling posture: side-on, back foot at a right angle to the front foot, free hand held out behind for balance and ease of breathing. Experienced duellists can glide smoothly up and down the stage like this but Malfoy and I looked more like deformed penguins, waddling back and forth. We were then told to bow, salute one another and the referee (Snape, worst luck) and then:

"On your guard. Ready? _Play_!"

"_Expelliarmus!" _I yelled, sending a jet of scarlet light sailing harmlessly over Malfoy's shoulder.

"_Serpensortia!" _cried Malfoy. A huge black snake erupted from the end of his wand and landed on the stage between us.

Now you may recall that I am not particularly fond of reptiles. In fact I am bloody terrified of the things. With this huge, fanged monstrosity gliding towards me, I lost my composure. My all-conquering survival instinct took hold. I staggered backwards, screaming:

"Aaagh! Go away! Go away, you vicious thing! Leave me alone, d'you hear? Go away, I said!"

To my surprise, the snake stopped. It turned around and began to slither towards Malfoy. Malfoy yelped like he had been scalded and leapt right off the stage. Snape leapt forward, his wand drawn.

"_Finite Incantatem," _he said. The snake dissolved into a wisp of black smoke. Then he turned and looked at me with a keen, almost calculating expression.

It was only then that I realised that the hall was silent. Every pair of eyes was fixed on me. I just stared back. I had expected jeers and laughter for my display of trouser-soiling cowardice. All I got was a stunned, almost awed hush.

Suddenly Ron and Hermione were there. They dragged me off the stage and out of the Hall. I followed, too confused to argue. The other students let us pass. Some of them actively got out of our way. We climbed the main staircase and entered the first free classroom we came to.

"Harry, what the… ?" Ron trailed off into a look of stunned dismay. Hermione was more eloquent and forceful:

"What the _fuck _do you think you're playing at?"

"What do you mean?" I said, utterly bewildered.

"Speaking Parseltongue in front of _half the school?" _said Hermione, "It's a wonder you didn't start a riot!"

"What? Speak English!"

Hermione made a noise halfway between a groan and a scream.

"You – are – a – Parselmouth," she said slowly, emphasising every word, "You – can – talk – to – snakes. Right?"

"Yeah," I said, still clueless.

"And they understand you?"

"Yeah. You mean you can't?" I said. I had assumed that speaking to animals was a generic wizard's trick.

"No. It's very rare," said Hermione, "You can't learn Parseltongue the way you learn another language. You can either speak it or you can't."

"Hold on," I said, "so nobody back there understood what I was saying?"

"When you set the snake on Malfoy? It just sounded like a load of weird hissing," said Ron. I grinned like a Cheshire cat. My reputation was saved! Everyone thought I was some furious snake charmer, setting my scaly servant on Malfoy. Trust Hermione to dispel my illusions almost as soon as they were formed.

"Nobody understood _what _you said but anybody with even a passing knowledge of magical history," she gave me a caustic look, "will understand what it could _mean._ Parseltongue runs in the blood; only certain families can speak it. And the most famous Parselmouth of all was Salazar Slytherin."

"The chap who built this Chamber of Secrets?" I said, horror rising in my voice. I knew how people's minds worked at Hogwarts.

"Exactly," said Hermione with a certain look of grim satisfaction, "You just became suspect number one in the hunt for the Heir of Slytherin."

"But that's insane! I'm in Gryffindor, for a start!" I cried, while doing my best not to recall my conversation with the college Sorting Hat in my first year.

"Doesn't matter," said Ron, "The Patils are twin sisters and they are in different Houses."

"You could easily be a distant descendent of Slytherin's. What do you know about your family?" asked Hermione.

"Not much," I said with a frown, "I'm Muggle on my mother's side. Descended from the Flashmans of Leicestershire, I believe. That's how I got my first name: old family tradition."

"And on your dad's?"

I shrugged.

"Haven't the foggiest. My aunt and uncle weren't exactly keen on my father."

"Well I'm sure you can find out if you did a bit of digging in the library," said Hermione, "The old magical families are obsessed with genealogy. They like to know how _pure _their blood is." She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"The library's not really my scene. I don't suppose you could…?" I said, giving her my most charming smile. Once again, it failed to have the desired effect.

"No," said Hermione flatly, "I have too much work on already."

"Oh come on…!"

"No! It's your family. You look it up."

"Have you met Hufflepuff's new Chaser? Cadwaller?" I asked innocently.

"You mean the big one with the blue eyes?" said Hermione, a little too quickly.

"I'll get you a date with him if you help me look up the family tree."

Hermione bit her lip, torn between time on her essays and a prime piece of Quidditch beefcake.

"Oh alright," she sighed, "But you have to help me with the research, okay?"

I knew when not to push her, so I agreed to meet Hermione in the library on Saturday afternoon for a little private study. It took us well over an hour, trawling through great tomes of genealogy and family trees so closely interwoven that they looked more like a spider's web. I found it all extremely dull. Until then the most time I had ever spent in the library was about twenty minutes and that was because I had Eloise Midgen bent over one of the reading desks. Ah, those were indeed the days…

"Right, I think I've got it," said Hermione at last, "Salazar Slytherin's bloodline; that is, direct line of descent, is quite clear up until the middle of the fifteenth century."

"What happens then?" I asked, already bored.

"Absalom Slytherin had three children," Hermione continued, showing me a picture of the family tree, "The eldest, Morgan, was murdered by his brother, the Dark Lord Morgus. Morgan had no children.

"Morgus went on to have an affair with the Muggle Queen, disguised as a Scottish lord."

"What did he do that for?"

"He wanted to put a Dark wizard on the throne. But the child turned out to be a Squib and the plan failed. The child may have known about his heritage though; his crest is some sort of black snake. It's almost identical to the Slytherins'."

"So I'm descended from a bastard Squib of the Slytherin family?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Purebloods wouldn't recognise that as legitimate descent. Officially, Morgus had no children either."

"So the line died out?"

"No. There was a third child: a girl, Morgana. If the male heirs die without issue, the line passes to the eldest _female_ heir. Morgana married Ignotus Peverell. And they…"

Hermione unrolled a very long scroll. It ran along the table and dropped onto the floor. I picked up the far end of it.

"… are my ancestors," I said. My father, James Potter, was one of the last entries on the Peverell tree.

"You are a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin," said Hermione quietly, "If anybody has the right to call themselves his Heir, it's you Harry."

"But I'm not the one who attacked Filch!" I whispered, terrified that we might be overheard.

"I know," she replied coolly, "But if I were you I would keep this _very _quiet."

She did not need to tell me. My reception at breakfast the next morning, and over the following weeks, was chilly at best. Being a Parselmouth was not illegal but it had all sorts of Dark connotations. Combine that with the rumours about the Chamber and my connection to the attack on Filch and people started to actively cross the corridor to avoid walking past me. And, much to my chagrin, my opportunities to score dropped to almost Ron Weasley levels. Far from compelling a stream of nymphomaniac totty into my bed, my stunt at the duelling club had actually put me under an involuntary vow of celibacy.

I was reflecting on this frustrating state of affairs one wet November night as I trudged, battered and muddy from Quidditch practice, up through the castle towards Gryffindor Tower. So wrapped up in my thoughts was I that I did not notice the corpse until I almost tripped over it.

I froze. It was Justin Finch Fletchley, a toffy little Hufflepuff from my year. He was lying on his back with a slightly surprised look on his face. Burned deep into his forehead were the words 'THE FATE OF ALL MUDBLOODS'.

My reaction was pure, mindless instinct: I ran, as fast as I could. I did not care where I ran, as long as it was _away _from the body. I turned the corner and nearly collided with somebody coming the other way.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" asked Professor Snape.

I really am one unlucky bastard.


	14. Good Auror, Bad Auror

**Chapter 14: Good Auror, Bad Auror  
**

And so it came to pass that I once more found myself plonked in front of two distinctly unpleasant Aurors with an axe to grind. I let slip an audible groan at the sight of the troll like Hunt perched on Dumbledore's desk. His eyes lit up at my discomfort as Snape ushered me into a chair.

"Well, well, well, Mr Potter! We didn't expect to be seeing you again so soon, did we, Sammy?"

"That's Samuel," his partner said with a roll of his eyes. "And you don't need to lay it on quite that thick, boss."

"Nothing wrong with rubbing the little git's face in his own stupidity, is there?" Hunt leered at me unpleasantly, and I leant back in my chair, affecting distaste at his presence. It wasn't that hard. The man reeked of cheap booze, for which there was no excuse. Not to mention the fact that his cheap, pathetic little jibe at my intellect and cunning had hit home.

"How exactly have I been stupid? I haven't done anything!"

"Being caught at the scene of the crime once is unlucky; twice? That's just dumb. Really, that's house-elf dumb. You think Dumbledore will let you go and scrub dishes after we snap your wand and use the splinters as firewood?"

"Now look here, you blithering ape-" I was cut off in my prime, which was probably fortunate going by the throbbing vein in Hunt's head. Snape had started to speak, from his position behind me.

"Much as it pains me to say it, Auror Hunt, I have to agree with Potter. I do not believe he did anything. He could not have, and I mean that as no comment on his moral character, simply his ability. He is a uniformly poor wizard, and I am constantly surprised that his wand wasn't ashamed to choose him."

I was certainly ashamed of my reaction to Snape's bilious remarks. I sat there like a bloody goldfish, gaping in appalled shock that anyone could be so…well, honest. He certainly had the cut of my gib, and no mistake. That said, I couldn't believe that anyone, let alone a Slytherin, would be so stupid as to speak the truth in front of an officer of the law, whether magical or Muggle. It went against every fibre of my being.

And, I must confess, in my anger – and haste to assert my reputation – I made a catastrophic mistake.

"I bloody well could have done something!"

If only I could have snatched those words back…alas, I don't think Dumbledore himself could have pulled off magic like that. Hunt's triumphant little smirk lit up his ugly face like a jack o'lantern, while Tyler merely looked embarrassed on my behalf. I could only thank Merlin, God and anyone else who happened to be listening that I wasn't being treated to a full frontal view of Snape's twisted gnashers as he revelled in my mistake.

"Professor Snape, I wonder if we could just have a quiet moment alone with the lad?" Hunt made no secret about what would be happening in this 'quiet moment'; he'd already drawn his wand, for God's sake.

"Of course. I ought to fetch the Headmaster anyway." I heard a swish of robes, and the click of the closing door. Hunt stood over me, his eyes gleaming with petty malice, and he twirled his wand. Tyler just sat there, watching me contemplatively.

"Do you know how easy it is to get the truth out of someone, you little ponce? How many ways there are to get you singing like a eunuch?" Hunt enquired, in what probably passed for a tone of genteel civility for him. I frowned.

"Don't you mean castrato? I suppose it's just a semantic difference when you get right down to it, but-" I tailed off as my brain caught up with me, and shrank back in my seat. Hunt did not look pleased with my interruption.

"Wanna find out how much of a difference semantics can make?" He tapped his wand meaningfully against the palm of his hand, and I shuddered. "That's better. Anyway, lots of ways for us to get you talking…"

"One, actually. Well, legally, but we are professionals…Veritaserum," Tyler chipped in, helpfully. I looked up at him, wondering what the bloody hell he was talking about, when he continued. "We haven't got any of that, of course. Restricted substance. Far more paperwork than it's actually worth. Any Auror worth his badge can get the truth with a few pointed questions."

"Of course," I replied with an ingratiating smile, trying to indicate that I had no doubt they were excellent Aurors, and that there was really no need for them to demonstrate their expertise for me, that I took every word they said as gospel truth. I was not entirely successful. Hunt gave a quick flick of his wand and an unseen force yanked my hand forward, slamming it to the desk. I cried out in pain at the impact, and then whimpered when the pressure did not ease. Slowly, it dawned on me that Hunt was set on crushing my hand against the desk.

"So," Hunt said, kneeling next to me and getting a firm grip on the scruff of my neck. "Why don't you tell us what you had against that Muggleborn kid? Why'd you want to kill him?"

"I didn't – I don't – I barely know who he was!" I cried out, trying to flex my fingers. I could barely focus on anything through the pain, not to mention the terror that was threatening to darken my expensive underwear. I've always liked to have the best in everything, what can I say? Hunt sighed, and raised his wand. The pressure on my hand vanished, and I clutched it to my chest, sweating profusely. I had to duck my head to hide the look of rage I was currently sporting. The miserable bastards would pay, I swore it then and there. How dare they do that to me? Didn't they know who I was? In the midst of my wild plotting, I was dimly aware of footsteps; suddenly, my head was yanked back and Tyler's wand was in my mouth.

I stared up at him, goggle-eyed, and he flashed a sad smile at me. "I really didn't want to have to do this, Harry, but I can be a little more subtle than my friend, you see."

My teeth started to shake. I don't mean chattering, although God knows I was scared enough to do it, but actually shaking. As in, rattling themselves loose. I let out a scream in a pitch I didn't know I could reach, and tried to fight my way out of the chair. Hunt's strong hands clamped down on my shoulders, holding me in place, and I went almost rigid with fear. It wasn't painful, as such. It just felt utterly, horrifyingly _wrong_. They were shaking themselves loose, the roots stretched and taut, and my mouth was filling with blood I couldn't spit out and couldn't bring myself to swallow…

The spell stopped. The wand was gone. Hunt released me. I sat there, stunned beyond belief, not quite realising what was going on, and then retched the blood out all over Dumbledore's desk. I pushed my fingers into my mouth, frantically examining my teeth. They were all still there; painful now, but apparently in their rightful positions and just as solidly placed as they had ever been.

"You ready to talk, you little shit?"

"I don't…I don't know anything, I swear. Please, just leave me alone." Reader, I was broken. I'm not a fan of pain at the best of times, but crushing the hand…well, that's a risk I took every time I shook Cormac's hand. It was painful, but the spell on my teeth had completely blindsided me. What was I supposed to tell them? Lockhart was an obvious alibi, but too obvious – I had used him last time, if you recall. I couldn't tell them the truth; they were hampered by that flaw inherent to all officers of the law, of whatever stripe – they were too thick to recognise that a lack of an alibi probably meant innocence rather than guilt. If I had attacked anyone, I would have made damn sure I was on the other side of the castle, preferably in view of a large crowd, when whoever I had roped in as the patsy did the deed. That was just basic common sense, surely? I couldn't even concentrate enough to come up with a cunning lie to bring myself out smelling of roses, which should tell you something.

"What d'you think, Sammy?" Hunt said, not taking his eyes off me. His partner shrugged.

"Looks like he's telling the truth. Probably a bit too spineless to do anything else, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, I reckon you're right. This is the great Harry Potter, huh? Can't say I'm impressed with you, you little weasel."

I glowered up at him impotently. What more could I do? Nothing, for now. But I promised myself that they would pay dearly for their actions. Hunt sat down in the chair opposite me, swivelling to place his ugly dragonhide boots on the desk, a picture of casual arrogance. "Here's what's going to happen, sunshine. We're busy men; we can't be here all the time, obviously. But we don't want this little fuck hurting any more of you, do we?"

"Absolutely not," Tyler said with a solemn shake of his head.

"So, you're going to keep an eye on things for us, aren't you?"

My expression must have been quite the picture. My mouth hung open slackly as I stared at them in bewilderment. "What…what am I supposed to do?"

"Let us know if you see or hear anything funny. Just generally keep tabs on the situation for us," Hunt explained.

"And if you don't…" Tyler continued ominously.

"Then we're going to fuck your life up for the foreseeable future, understand, chum?" I sank back in my seat under the force of Hunt's malevolent grin. I was well and truly screwed. I wasn't an Auror – I could barely keep track of my lesson notes, such as they were, never mind try and work out who was unleashing some foul beasty on all and sundry. In the end though, what could I say? A negative response would have ended with my pearly whites on the floor, one way or another, and I was eager to avoid that. Finally, after a lengthy silence, I nodded to them. I kept my eyes on the floor. I did not want to know what Hunt would do if he could see the sheer hatred in my eyes.

There was the creaking of old hinges, and Hunt swung his feet off the desk. He sketched a salute behind me; "Professor Dumbledore, sir."

I turned around, eager for the first time I could remember to see that doddering old fool. He slid wintery eyes over the scene before him, and I could feel the disapproval radiating from him. He knew exactly what had been going on, oh yes, and he wasn't happy about it. I remember thinking to myself, now we're in for some fun! I thought I was going to get to see him crush them, burn them to cinders out of sheer disgust…

The old bastard nodded at them, and asked them if there was anything else he could get them. He even offered out sherbet lemons as they were leaving, the odious little shit. How dare he? That was it, he was going on the list. He would pay as well. Oh, my revenge would be swift, brutal, glorious…spoken of with hushed reverence for years to come, the day that Harry James Potter stood up and showed the world that he was not to be trifled with…

"Don't forget, Potter." Hunt pointed his index finger at me, and smirked unpleasantly. "You scratch our back, or we'll scratch yours…"

Translation: help them or get the living shit kicked out of me, by professionals. I hung my head, my wrath dying away. "Of course." I actually squeaked, all the Gods damnit. They swaggered out, leaving me alone with the illustrious Headmaster. That noble gentleman walked past me, touching his hand lightly to my shoulder, and sat down opposite me. He studied me carefully, his eyes full of concern – doubtless completely false, but credit where it was due, the man was a hell of an actor.

"I am truly sorry that you have found yourself mixed up in these proceedings once again, my boy. If anyone deserves the quiet life, it is you, after all."

Well, I couldn't argue with that, could I? I would have been very happy for a quiet life! Well, quiet-ish, at least. I assumed a humble, sorrowful expression, leavening it with a sprinkling of concern for…Fletchly, yes. "All I want to do is help, sir, of course. This whole situation is just awful."

"I'm delighted to hear you say that, Harry," Dumbledore replied, with a slight twitch of his beard suggesting a smile. "If there is anything you know, I am always here to listen."

I nodded, attempting to project an aura of dim-witted loyalty and empty-headedness – Longbottom's natural appearance, in other words.

"Is there anything you wish to say to me?" Dumbledore asked. Normally, when amongst friends, I'd have grabbed an opportunity like that with both hands, making some appropriately insulting remark, but what could I possibly say to Dumbledore? 'You're a senile old git.' 'You dress like a drug addled parrot.' 'You're too clever by half, and don't think for a moment that I don't know exactly what your game is.' 'Fuck you and the griffin you rode in on.' None of these seemed wise. I merely attached a winning smile to my face.

"If there was, you would be the first to know, sir."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"I don't like this, don't like it at all. I just can't believe someone here would do something like this!"

I rolled my eyes. It was hardly the first time I had heard Longbottom spouting off like this, but I'd thought he'd given up on it by now. He'd been blabbering about the Heir of Slytherin since Fletchly had been attacked, criticising the lack of fair play and sportsmanship and fair play. At one point, honestly, I swear he declared that it just wasn't Quidditch. Well, I could hardly disagree with him, but it seemed a spectacularly asinine comment under the circumstances. Our little group was clustered at the end of the Gryffindor table. I was nursing a hangover – I'd needed more than a few stiff drinks to recover from my ordeal with the Aurors – while everyone else was tucking heartily into the sausages and bacon. As I glared at Longbottom, the bastard scooped an entire rasher into his mouth, devouring it heartily. I groaned, and averted my eyes. Unfortunately, that brought my gaze in line with Draco Malfoy, which was hardly an improvement. I glowered at him, on principle, and slumped down on the table, face first.

"Buck up, old man!" Cormac gave me a slap on the back; he had shaken off the vast amounts of alcohol he had consumed the previous evening with enviable ease. Bastard.

"But seriously – can any of you see these chaps hunting Muggleborns?" Longbottom had not been distracted, and was now waving his fork meaningfully. "I know there's some dubious types in Slytherin, but they wouldn't do this. No-one would. It's got to be someone from outside the school."

"You would say that," I muttered. Sadly, he heard me.

"What do you mean?"

"You're an idealist, Longbottom. I'm telling you, there is no-one more likely to do something like this than some hormonal student who's had too much firewhiskey and who remembers their daddy blathering about the good old days. Of course one of us could be doing this."

The sap actually looked a little broken hearted by my cynical spiel. I can only assume that I had shattered some illusion he held about me. On the one hand, he'd probably leave me alone for a while. On the other, he probably wouldn't remember it for long. Ah well.

"Much as I hate to agree with Harry," Hermione chipped in, scowling at me. I'd promised to put her in touch with Cedric Diggory, but hadn't got round to it yet. In retaliation, she had stopped doing my homework for me. I thought it was a fair swap, but she was determined to bitch at me every chance she got, and it really was getting tiresome. "But he's right, this time. I mean, just look at Malfoy!"

"Oh, he's just…a little set in his ways," Longbottom offered weakly. Even he knew, deep in his heart, that Malfoy was a Bad Sort.

"Ha! He's certainly been happy enough about the attacks," I told him. "He might as well be posting love letters to the bastard everywhere he goes." It was true. Malfoy really was being obnoxious about the whole thing – and while I didn't particularly approve of his views, the worst thing was his lack of subtlety. I mean, if you think like that, you don't announce it at every opportunity, do you? You just get on with life. I didn't tell people what I really thought of Dumbledore, after all.

"Yeah, but he's too clever to do that _and_ have anything to do with it," Dean Thomas pointed out. I started to respond, and then stopped. A lightbulb had just appeared above my head – not literally, I must stress. I had had, as the saying goes, a cunning idea. A slow smile crept over my lips, and I leapt to my feet.

"Ron. Follow me!"

We were going to need a cat.


	15. Damned dirty business

Chapter 15: Damned dirty business 

As I look back over my life, I am astonished at the number of stupid things I have done – following Quirrell down into the dungeons; trusting Remus Lupin; marrying my grasping harlot of a wife. But undoubtedly the most asinine incident in my long, blundering career was the plan I concocted to frame Draco Malfoy as the Heir of Slytherin: get a local cat, transform it into something hideous, hide it in his dormitory and then call in the Aurors. The 'beast' is caught and killed, Malfoy is hauled off to Azkaban and I get Hunt and Tyler off my back. Can you see how this might have gone wrong?

Getting hold of the cat was actually the simple bit. I knew that Mrs Norris was sure to be missed, so I gave Ron my invisibility cloak, a wicker basket and a butterfly net and dispatched him to Hogsmeade one moonless night. He grumbled but I was able to twist his arm.

'Buck up old chap! You're doing me a damn good turn, saving me from those Auror thugs. I'd do the same for you if I was in your place.'

'Really?'

'I am hurt you'd even ask!' I said, settling myself in front of the common room fire, 'I'll be waiting for you when you get back.'

He scowled and muttered a great deal but he dutifully set off into the village. He returned several hours later with his hands cut to ribbons and a face like he'd tried to snog a barbed wire fence but he had found a cat. It was a spitting, snarling thing with more than a bit of rat in its makeup; if it had an owner I doubt they missed it.

Now we had the cat we had to find somewhere to work. Fred and George tipped us off that the girls' bathroom on the second floor had been abandoned due to some highly aggressive plumbing. As we were not intending to use the facilities, it was ideal. Ron tethered the cat to one of the pipes, losing another square foot of skin in the process, while I spirited some books on animal transfiguration from the Restricted Section of the library. There was no way Hermione would help us with this. Cheating on essays was one thing; what we were about was highly illegal.

I soon discovered that there is a world of difference between having a spell book and being able to use it. What with my indolence and Ron's gormlessness we were ill-equipped to understand the high level magic involved in such radical transfiguration. A lesser man might have been daunted. A wiser man would have abandoned the idea. Unfortunately for the cat, I was neither.

'O bugger this for a game of soldiers!' I cried, throwing yet another impenetrable textbook across the bathroom, 'It doesn't have to be pretty, does it? Just nasty enough to look like it has a taste for Muggleborns. How hard can it be?'

I stood up and pointed my wand at the cat.

'Let's have a bash at it! Err… _Deformo!__' _

The cat squealed like a kettle on the boil, turned bright orange and burst in a great spray of apricot jam. I managed to dive behind a sink in time but Ron got a face full.

'Well don't just stand there!' I said as he wiped jam out of his eyes, 'We're going to need a new cat.'

We wasted a whole month in that bathroom, sending the local cats to meet their Maker in various colourful ways. Some caught fire; some were frozen to the spot; some shot into the ceiling. One turned into a perfect miniature replica of a double-decker bus. One appeared unaffected until Ron tried to touch it and it dissolved into a cloud of bubbles. The only one that actually survived was useless as a denizen of the Chamber of Secrets; apart from a lingering smell of violets, it remained an ordinary cat.

I was on the verge of abandoning the plan when something happened that drove the girls' bathroom, Malfoy and even the Aurors from my mind. I was making my way down to dinner after yet another spectacular feline death when a voice accosted me from a classroom door:

'Potter. In here, now.'

I turned aside and was astonished to see Lockhart perched on one of the desks, a slimy grin on his face. Oh ho, I thought as I closed the door behind me, has someone forgotten our little arrangement? Maybe it was time to send an owl to Ms Skeeter.

'Yes, Professor?' I said mildly.

'Your essay on the key themes in _Gadding__with__Ghouls_ has not been handed in.'

'Essay?' I frowned, 'What are you talking about?'

'Your essay, Potter,' he said acidly, 'Students write them for their teachers. You owe me several.'

'I thought we had an understanding about such things,' I said, 'Or perhaps you would like me to have a word with the _Daily__Prophet_?I might even pop down to their office in person…'

'What a coincidence!' said Lockhart, feigning surprise, 'I was hoping to get in touch with the _Prophet_myself. Longbottom told me _such_ an interesting story last night. I am sure they would be _very_keen to hear it.'

Shafts of cold stabbed at my bowels but I kept up an appearance of apparent indifferent.

'What do you mean?'

'I was curious about what happened the night you foiled old Quirinus Quirrell,' said Lockhart, growing more and more smug, 'Such a heroic thing to do. And from one so… _young._So I thought I would hear it first hand from Longbottom. Those were very powerful memory charms you put on him; I thought I would never break through...' Memory charms? That must have been Dumbledore's doing, the devious old git. But why? Lockhart continued: 'I see why you took such trouble over them. Petrifying your friend when his back was turned? Very naughty, especially for the Boy Who Lived. I wonder what your adoring public would think if they knew that was how their precious hero responded in a crisis?'

'Probably the same way they'll respond when they find out you've been frequenting the London knocking shops!'

'It would be worth it to bring you down,' snarled Lockhart, 'They've put people in Azkaban for less than what you did to Longbottom!'

We stood in silence, teeth bared, glaring hatefully at one another.

'So,' I said at length, 'where do you propose we go from here?'

'If you keep your mouth shut, I'll keep mine shut,' said Lockhart.

'Fine by me.'

'Good.'

We both knew that it was never going to work. We had the measure of each other now: both scoundrels, both devious and both with too much to lose. The only question was which one of us would strike first. And it would have to be decisive: no half measures, or the other would run to the press and the game would be up for both of us.

I fretted about it for a fortnight. There was no-one I could turn to, not even Ron. Even his mindless puppy dog loyalty would not stretch to jinxing the sainted Neville Longbottom in the back. I briefly considered running to Dumbledore. He clearly wanted to hush up what really happened that night but I did not trust him. The old fox was playing his own unfathomable game and I wanted to keep as far out of it as I could. So I worried alone and in silence. The experiments in the girls' bathroom were abandoned. I hardly drank or smoked. Skirt chasing was out in the question. I spent my evenings in the dormitory dreaming up plots to bring down Lockhart but to no avail. I could not think of any way to silence him for good, short of actual violence and I did not have the stomach for that.

My only distraction was Quidditch. Our big game against Slytherin was coming up, with the Cup at stake. When I was training I did not worry about what Lockhart was planning. That was until Wood announced who was to referee the game.

'Lockhart?' I cried.

'Yeah,' Wood grinned, missing my horrified expression, 'Our lucky charm!' Lucky charm indeed, when I was blackmailing him to favour Gryffindor and turn a blind eye to our fouls. We had breezed through the last two games, with Lockhart awarding us penalties for every trivial foul the opposition committed. What would he be like now that he had Longbottom's story to use against me? A diehard Slytherin fan, no doubt.

'O God, let somebody else do it,' I groaned to myself, 'Madame Hooch;

Professor Snape; hell I'd even take Malfoy!'

But no replacement was forthcoming. The day of the cup match arrived and we marched out onto the pitch to find Lockhart waiting with the balls.

'Okay teams, you both know what's at stake,' he said cheerily, trying to juggle the Quaffle and dropping it on his toes, 'Do your best and keep it clean. I'm sure that it's going to be a memorable game.' I think he glanced at me as he said this but I am not sure. A few seconds later the Snitch was released, the whistle blew and the fourteen players soared into the air. I shot off to the furthest end of the stadium. Sod the game; I was getting as far away from Lockhart as I could.

The first part of the game went badly for us. Our Chasers were not up to much that year (Longbottom was laid up in the hospital wing with some sort of magic flu) and Slytherin soon led 60-20.

'Potter! Get your head out of your arse and look for the Snitch!' Wood bellowed after yet another goal slipped past him. I nodded and made a show of sweeping the Gryffindor stands but my eyes were fixed on the distant magenta speck that was Lockhart. He had behaved pretty well so far, showing no partiality towards either side but that only made me more nervous. I was sure that he had some dirty scheme in mind for me.

Another ten minutes passed and Slytherin edged further ahead, bringing the score to 100-30. Our only saving grace was that Malfoy, a shoddy Seeker at the best of times, had fagged himself out by racing up and down the pitch looking for the Snitch and now looked like he would have difficulty catching anything faster than a hot air balloon. I was not taking any real interest in the game, doing my best keep the spectator stands between myself and Lockhart at all times, when a Bludger came hurtling past me. Nothing unusual about that. I did a bit of the old ducking and diving, hoping to shake off the Beater who'd marked me for a pounding, only for the Bludger to come barrelling after me thirty seconds later. I twisted round, trying to spot the Beater but found only clear sky. The Bludger had been tampered with and it was obvious who was behind it.

I did everything I could to shake that damned ball. Long turns; short turns; climbing as high as I could; skimming above the ground; slaloming between the stands. Nothing distracted it. If it met an obstacle it smashed straight through it like a cannonball. The spectators were screaming. The Gryffindors were accusing the Slytherins of jinxing the Bludger. A fight was breaking out between two adjacent stands. Play had all but stopped on the pitch. Fred and George tried to cover me, smashing the rogue Bludger as hard and as far away as they could but it returned every time. The other players just floated there while Lockhart swooped up and down, making a lot of noise but not actually _doing_anything. Hermione told me later that some of the teachers wanted to shoot the ball out of the sky but did not want to risk hitting me.

The minutes dragged by. I could feel my arms and legs going numb. I knew I could not keep up that pace much longer. I would have to do something drastic. I considered diving into the Great Lake but I was not sure if you could drown a Bludger. I was starting to feel lightheaded. It would not be long before I fell off my broom. In my desperation I decided to try the Wronski Feint, one of the most dangerous Qudditich manoeuvres, in the hope of burying the Bludger in the ground.

I dropped my broom's nose and shot towards the pitch. I could hear the ball whistling through the air behind me like an artillery shell. At the last possible moment I pulled up. My tired hands slipped off the handle and I rolled off, bouncing roughly across the grass. My broom carried on towards the clouds. The Bludger slammed into the ground beside me, showering me with lumps of turf. I lay on my back, too exhausted to move, staring in terror as the ball writhed and struggled beneath the pitch like some frantic mole. It leapt skywards in another fountain of earth, hung for a moment as if in thought and then sped towards me.

With a crack a tiny, skinny little creature appeared between me and the Bludger. I had half a moment to recognise Dobby, the house elf who had visited me at Privet Drive, as he cried:

'You shall not hurt Harry Potter!'

Then he and the Bludger vanished with a sound like the ringing of some gigantic gong. I lay on the grass, unhurt, with my breath coming in and out in huge, panicky sobs. A shadow fell across my body.

'O the poor boy! He's broken his arm! Don't you worry Harry, I'll sort you out…'

I turned my head to see Lockhart standing over me, his wand pointed straight at me.


	16. Shopping for a Minion

**Chapter 16: Shopping for a Minion**

I have, though I say it myself, astonishing self-control in a crisis.

Well, I have astonishing self-control in a crisis related to my public image.

Ok. I have astonishingly sporadic self-control in such a crisis. That will, I think, be accurate enough for our purposes. What I mean is that the tip of Lockhart's wand did not, on this occasion, cause me to soil myself and whimper like a child (although some might suggest that given his demonstrated lack of ability or indeed common sense, soiling myself might have been the sensible option). Instead, I tried to put him off.

"Oh, there's no need to trouble yourself, sir! It's just a scratch…"

Lockhart grinned sadistically at me. He had me cornered, and he knew it. "Potter, as your professor, I'll be the judge of that. Let me see…"

He prodded my arm with his wand, and I couldn't completely hide the look of pain on my face, regardless of how good I was getting at bluffing in poker. His eyes lit up, while from behind him several members of my adoring public cooed in sympathy. "Ah-ha! I knew it, you're just putting a brave face on! Don't worry, we'll soon have you sorted out…"

He whirled his wand above his head in an impressive – not to mention highly inaccurate and needlessly flamboyant (so Hermione would later tell me) – gesture, and then flashed it down onto my wrist.

I braced myself, expecting pain at the least, but there was a curious lack of sensation. The absence continued even after he removed the wand, and it was only then that I risked a look at my arm. What I saw appalled me.

"You…you stupid bastard," I hissed under my breath. "What the hell did you do to my bones?"

"Ah, Harry," he tutted. "How little you understand of the healing arts. Far easier to replace than repair, y'know."

The look on his face suggested that this last comment fell under his only true ability: blatant lies. Forgetting myself for an instant, I found myself grasping in vain for my wand. I couldn't find it, and when I looked around I saw Hermione clutching it as she stared at Lockhart. The look of sheer disbelief on her face heartened me somehow – had Lockhart's vindictiveness gone awry? – but I said nothing. Lockhart looked strangely disappointed at my lack of obvious reaction, and he stood up.

"Well lads, best get him off to the Hospital Wing. Take care with him now."

McClaggen swept me up in a fireman's lift, to which I objected strenuously, and hurried off towards the castle. "Buck up, old man! Pomfrey'll have you all ticketiboo in no time, you'll see!"

"McClaggen, I'm fine!" I snapped. "Put me down, you lummox!" He ignored me, and I cringed as a rather attractive Ravenclaw filly in the sixth year shot me a pitying look. Then it hit me. I was being carried like a sack of injured coal through the castle after a (relatively) mild Quidditch injury. It would be the talk of the castle for weeks.

"That sneaky little shit!"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

In the end, I could just consider myself lucky that it was the end of term. Madame Pomfrey did indeed fix my arm in a jiffy, albeit a jiffy involving vast quantities of excruciating pain as my bones reformed themselves out of thin air in my empty skin. However, she decided that it would be in my best interests to be kept in for observation for a day or so; by the time I got out, most of the school had vacated the premises for the Christmas hols. Rejoicing in this, I headed back up to the common room and proceeded to get utterly bladdered.

When I had sobered up, two days later, I set myself to revenge.

Lockhart's reputation was his obvious weak spot, but I had nothing on him. The memories I had claimed to have of him whoring were a complete fabrication, so the only thing I could bring to bear against him was my word. That would count for something, obviously, but he had cold hard facts in his favour. I suppose his teaching career could have been held up as evidence of his ineptitude – and by extension, his fraudulent heroism – but being a piss poor teacher hardly made him unique.

My first step was to therefore try and find something I could use against him. I knew about Pensieves, so in theory I could simply take the memories and display them for the world, but then people would know I had been to Moor Alley. It wouldn't look good anyway, and put next to Longbottom's memories…no. Far from being the ace up my sleeve, it seemed that it would actually have to be a weapon of last resort.

Unfortunately, the rest of my arsenal amounted to sweet F.A.

Inspiration failed to strike, and I put it to the back of my head for a day or so. I've often found that the best way of solving a problem is to let it fester. The solution can strike you at any time. Or, if you're really, really lucky, it'll go away all by itself and you don't need to worry about it. On this occasion, it was Ernie Macmillan who presented me with a possibility.

It was Christmas Day, and those of us from the Set who were still at Hogwarts (surprisingly few, as it happened) had entertained each other with a little shindig in the quad. I had been a little dubious about the plan, due to the thick blanket of snow that had turned the world white, but a liberal sprinkling of charms had rendered the place entirely satisfactory, and actually rather cosy. A piquant beaker of mulled wine was warming me up nicely, and Macmillan was reading a letter from his parents. His rather pompous, plummy tones were doing a splendid job of lulling me to sleep, when he suddenly snorted.

"Merlin, you'd think they could find something more interesting to write about!" He folded the letter up and put it into his pocket. Now I had to confess, I hadn't entirely absorbed what it was he had been saying, so I was a little confused. I looked at him askance, and he tutted.

"Little too much of the good stuff? They're complaining about the dratted elf, of all things. Mother says he's not being prompt enough bringing their meals. Give the creature a hiding, that'll sort it out. Lord knows why that hasn't occurred to them…"

House elves. I imagined the quad lighting up with the glow from the lightbulb going on over my head, and I grinned. "House elves, yes…tell me, how do they work? They have to do everything you tell them, yes?"

Ernie nodded slowly. "That's right. They're bound to keep your secrets, obey all your orders, whistle on command…all that sort of thing, you know."

"Do they just help out in the house? Or can you send them off on errands?"

"Oh yes, my mother sends him off to get the weekly groceries, all that sort of thing. There's nothing they can't do, really. They've got their own powerful magic, in a way. Only limited by your imagination, to be honest. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just musing," I said, sipping my wine. "How do you get hold of them?"

"You just call their name," Ernie said, standing up. "Anyway. Must be off! See you chaps later."

I called after him ineffectually as he left, his answer not being quite the one I wanted. I didn't want to _summon_ an elf, I wanted to buy one. However, his answer might not be entirely useless…

An hour later I was safely ensconced in the dorm. Ron was dutifully standing guard outside, although in all honesty I didn't expect to be disturbed. Seamus Finnegan was the only other Gryffindor lad who had remained over the hols, and he was passed out in the common room. Nevertheless, I have always been known for my caution. I lounged on my bed, and called out the half remembered name from the summer.

"Dobby? Dobby, get your arse over here!"

There was a loud crack, and the house elf appeared in front of me, cringing. Then it realised who I was, and it's repulsive features lit up with an obsessive glee. "Master Harry Potter sir! Oh, Dobby is so happy to see Master Potter safe and well! Dobby was worried after that Bludger…"

"Yes, that was quite impressive," I cut in. Usually I wouldn't have been averse to such fawning, but I had more important things to be getting on with. "And as a reward – " Ha! "I'd like to offer you a job. What do you say?"

His ears wilted dramatically, and he acquired an expression like a kicked puppy. "Dobby would love to work for Master Harry Potter, but Dobby is already employed."

"So? Write them a letter of resignation!"

"Dobby cannot _write_, Harry Potter sir! And Dobby cannot just leave service, Dobby must be sacked." His expression became ever more pitiful. "'Tis a grievous punishment for a house elf, sir, to be sacked."

"Damn it!" I swore loudly. "Well then, who do you work for? Maybe I can buy you from them…"

Dobby actually shuffled away from me, shaking his head wildly. "No! No Master Potter sir, please. Dobby cannot tell you!"

I drummed my fingers against the duvet. My plan was falling down around my ears rapidly. Unless… "In that case, where did they get you from?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

I took my first steps towards my cunning plan's fruition a week or so later. Strictly speaking, if you'd elected to stay at Hogwarts over the hols, you weren't allowed off the grounds. In practice though, so long as you had a decent reason for going (or said you did) and went accompanied, the staff didn't really mind. And so one day in January, Ron and I set forth to Diagon Alley, on the pretext of taking care of some banking at Gringotts. Technically, I wasn't lying – I did have to go to Gringotts. I was sure that a house elf would set me back a galleon or two, to say the least.

McGonagall agreed to let us use her fireplace to Floo travel, which was an experience. Have you ever tried it? It's rather fallen out of fashion these days, what with one thing or another, and a good thing too I say. Quite the most undignified form of travel, believe me. I ended up arse over tit on the floor of the Leaky Cauldron, which didn't actually attract that much attention due to the state of most of the clientele (also arse over tit, for the most part), and was most aggrieved to find that Ron managed a perfect dismount.

"You're good at something then," I muttered just loud enough for him to hear me. He gave me a slightly puzzled look, then helped me to my feet. "Right," I said, dusting myself off. "Which way now then?"

"Well, we need to get into the Alley first," Ron said helpfully.

"Well obviously, that goes without saying!" I replied, smoothly covering up the fact that I'd forgotten that little detail. What? I didn't go there very often. I can't remember everything. "But after that?"

He reached into his robes and withdrew a sheaf of parchment, intricate and arcane directions written in Dobby's childish scrawl. He peered at them, and smiled brightly. "Don't worry! I know exactly where it is!"

"Oh good," I said, leading the way towards the portal at the back. "I feel better already."

As it happened, he actually did direct us pretty well. The trip wasn't without incident, but in my experience – even now – going to Diagon Alley never is. The Wizarding equivalent of Oxford Street is always busy, and you certainly get a better class of busker. We went via Gringotts where, following the customary jovial encounter with the goblins (evil little shits), I was able to withdraw some money from my vault. I took the opportunity to check that the Philiosopher's Stone was still there. The little red jewel was indeed still nestled in a pile of Sickles, and I grinned. Once I'd figured out how to use the damn thing, I was laughing. Eventually we arrived at our destination, a rather dilapidated establishment with murky windows and a battered sign in the window: "Snitterfield's Bestiary".

I frowned, a little uncertain about setting foot inside. "Are you sure this is right, Ron? I can't see many Purebloods coming here…"

"I think most families inherit them," he explained a little uncertainly. "If you haven't inherited one, chances are you're from a background that doesn't agree with having house elves anyway, so I don't think it's that much of a problem."

"Hmm. Well, needs must I suppose." And with that, I pushed the door open.

The air inside the shop was as musty as the windows, and I coughed as the door disturbed a cloud of dust. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, and in the end I raised my wand.

"_Lumos!_" There was a faint flicker of light from the tip, but it quickly died. I swore, and tried again. This time the spell took, and I held it above my head, my lip curling in disgust. "God, it's a real sty here…"

The walls were lined with cages, which were in turn lined liberally with old straw and shit. Only a few of them were occupied; clearly business was either booming, or dying a slow and agonising death. It wasn't just house elves, although there were more of them than anything else, all big hopeful eyes fixating on me and Ron as if we were their own personal lord and saviour, but a few snakes, and creatures I didn't like to examine to closely. The elves huddled up to the doors of their cages as we walked past, pleading expressions on their ugly faces.

"You just can't buy loyalty like that, Ron," I remarked as we walked past. "Look at 'em, they're practically salivating!"

"Ah, I like to see an eye for quality," someone wheezed. I jumped, ever so slightly, and lowered my wand. A wizard, presumably Mr Snitterfield, had appeared behind a counter at the far end of the room. He was rubbing his hands together, and had plastered an ingratiating smile on his face. His hair was slicked down, and he had a bit of a hunch. He was clearly a complete scoundrel, and I had to resist the urge to adjust my bag of gold.

"Mr Snitterfield, I presume?"

"Oh, that's me sir, that's me, happy to make your acquaintance…" He reached out his hand, apparently for me to shake. I eyed it, and took a step back. He didn't appear offended, probably used to such rejection, and he stepped out from behind the counter. "And how can I help you two fine gentlemen this morning? Perhaps a Bandersnatch? Fresh in, lovely specimen, just lovely, and crying out for a good home sir. Good guard animal as well, I can tell you!" He leered, and flicked a glob of something foul from between his discoloured teeth. "Have yer throat out as quick as you like, if it don't know you."

"Charming," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more…practical. One of these, in fact." I slapped the top of one of the cages, and the house elf inside did a little backflip of joy.

"A house elf? Oh, excellent choice sir, excellent choice! Always very handy, sir, very handy indeed. We've got a few in at the moment, as it happens. Any preference in sex or colour?"

"Does it make a difference?" I asked, intrigued. The proprietor shrugged.

"To some, sir. To some. You hear stories, if you know what I mean…"

I did know what he meant, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Well, there'll be none of that for a start! No, I just want a servant. One that's healthy, reasonably energetic, that sort of thing."

"Oh, I know the very one, sir. The very one!" He skittered over to one of the cages in the far corner, bringing it into the light. I perused the elf inside carefully. It didn't look too bad, to my untrained eye. Ugly as sin, of course, but that couldn't be helped. The eyes were bright enough, no tears on the ears, even the rag around its waist was relatively clean. I nodded. It would do.

"I'll take it. How much?"

He named a price, and I raised my eyebrow. "And the actual price?"

He repeated his statement, leaning back against the counter casually. "And not a Knut less."

I glowered at him. The price probably wasn't that unreasonable, taking into account what I knew about Wizarding economics. It was really just the principle of the thing. Never pay full price if you can help it, and certainly not without a fight. You don't want people thinking you're a pushover, or made of money. It just makes them more likely to try and rob you. Snitterfield sighed.

"Come now, sir, it's a good price! You said it yourself, you can't buy loyalty like that. Except in this case, you can. Let's not be churlish…"

"I'll give you sixty," I told him, roughly half of what he wanted. He smiled and shook his head.

"I couldn't possibly. I might as well give him away at that price!"

"I'm quite happy with that arrangement, if you like," was my response, to which he frowned. Then he sighed theatrically, his servile appearance disappearing instantly.

"Boys?"

Two shadows moved, and I let out a quiet little yelp as two veritable giants appeared behind Snitterfield. They looked like they'd been carved rather than born, and from low grade stone as well.

"Yes, boss?" One of them rumbled terrifyingly. I looked at Ron. He simply stood there, looking as gormless as ever.

"These gentlemen think they can set their own prices," Snitterfield remarked conversationally. He suddenly looked a lot more intimidating. "The twins here are going to show you why that's a bad idea, lads."

"Bloody hell, I just came in to buy an elf!" I exclaimed, backing away. "What is this, the Magical Mafia?"

"I just know how to look out for my interests," Snitterfield said, spreading his hands expansively. "What's it going to be?"

"Fine, take the bloody money!" I spat, throwing a bag at his feet. "Now give me my elf."

Snitterfield clicked his fingers, and the elf disappeared with a pop. I was all set to vent my rage on the man when it reappeared, attached to my leg and looking up at me with an adoring expression. I cringed, and shook it off.

"Nice doing business with you, sir," Snitterfield said with a smile. He pocketed the gold and turned away. I ground my teeth with rage, but didn't fancy my chances. Pausing only to spit on the floor, I called Ron after me and walked out of the shop, elf still hanging from my shin. Once outside, I turned to examine the shop.

"Quite old, wouldn't you say?" I asked my companion. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good." I pointed my wand at the door, and cast a spell. A lick of flame leapt from my wand, but barely singed the door. I tried again, and it wouldn't even spark up. "Buggering fuck!" I yelled, almost ready to throw my wand at the door in a rage. Turning away, seething in my thwarted revenge, my eyes lit upon the elf.

"People tell me that you elves are quite powerful. Is that right?"

The elf nodded cautiously. I rather suspected its previous owner, or at least Snitterfield, had not treated it very well. I sympathised, but I was damn well going to make use of it.

"I'd like a demonstration." I pointed at the door, which had stopped giving off smoke now. By the sound of things, Snitterfield and his apes hadn't even noticed my pitiful attempts at arson. "Torch it."

The elf simply looked confused, and I rolled my eyes. "Set fire to it! Burn it! Turn it to ashes and dust!"

The elf's eyes lit up like Christmas baubles, and I saw far more of its teeth than I ever wanted to again. It scurried forward, and clicked its fingers. Instantly, the door went up like a bonfire. There were shouts of fury from inside, and the sudden sound of water cascading everywhere. Confident that the fire would be out soon, I turned and walked away, whistling.

"What's your name, elf?"

"I doesn't have a name, sir!" the elf replied forlornly. It was having to scamper to keep up, and it was panting heavily.

"Well, from now on, your name is Dudders, understand?" I told it with a grin. There was something of a resemblance, actually.

"Oh yes sir, Dudders understands perfectly!" The look of ecstatic joy on its face was almost heartwarming. Behind me, a plume of smoke was climbing higher and higher into the sky.

"Excellent. Now, I want you to keep an eye on someone for me…"


	17. Violence, terror, and toothpaste

Chapter 17 – Violence, terror and toothpaste

Dudders quickly proved himself to be the ideal servant – obedient, discreet and devoted to the point of mania. I set him to stalking Lockhart; already a common hobby among the female students. But I doubt anyone at Hogwarts did it as skilfully or successfully as dear old Dudders. Every night I would receive a summary of Lockhart's movements around the castle, a selection of his correspondence (mostly guff from admiring housewives) and any unusual information that might be relevant. It was pretty tedious, truth be told, but I stuck to it with a tenacity that I never applied to my essays. I was obsessed with finding the vital piece of information; the incriminating photograph; the shady story that would give me leverage over that smarmy git. And after three weeks diligent snooping, Dudders found something.

'Look, sir! Taken from his very own bathroom, sir,' he said, pressing the proffered object into my hands. It was a tube of toothpaste. It had a picture of a smiling wizard not unlike Lockhart on it and the word 'Glamour' written in golden letters.

'And?' I said.

'It is illegal, sir. _Very _illegal; banned by the Ministry, oh yes,' Dudders nodded, his ears flapping back and forth like two tiny flags, 'Dudders spoke to other elves. Elves with _bad _masters, _wicked _masters, not good, kind, _noble _master like Harry Potter, oh no…'

I enjoy a bit of sycophantic grovelling as much as the next man but now was not the time. 'The toothpaste, Dudders,' I said firmly.

'Oh yes, sir. The other elves say that this toothpaste must come from abroad, sir. Has to be smuggled into the country.'

'Why? Is it dangerously whitening?'

'It is _enchanted, _sir. Illegal spells have been cast over it. Changes human brains, sir, makes them think nice things about you if you put it on your teeth. It is used by bad wizards to seduce women. Not that Harry Potter would need such a thing, no sir. No, Harry Potter is a handsome wizard; a virile wizard. He does not need magic to win ladies, no…'

'Yes, yes, quite,' I said, waving him away, 'You've done well Dudders. Go and do… whatever it is you lot do for fun.'

'Oh yes sir. Thank you sir!'

Dudders disappeared with a loud 'crack', leaving me to plot. The toothpaste proved that Lockhart was a scumbag, no doubt about that, but it was not enough to bring scandal down on Lockhart's head. He could deny that it was his; say that I planted it on him to ruin his good name. But it was something. It certainly explained the strange attraction he held over even the most level-headed Hogwarts fillies. Maybe I could find out who was smuggling the toothpaste to him. I had my own contacts in the magical underworld and I was not short of gold to bribe the unscrupulous. Who knows what I might have uncovered about _Witch Weekly's _favourite? But I never had the opportunity. Larger events overtook me, bringing about the downfall of Dumbledore and my very near death.

It was a clear February morning when they found the dead girl on the great staircase. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling with a look of confusion and disbelief. Her name was Clearwater, a sixth year from Ravenclaw, and she was Muggleborn. No note or message was left this time but nobody was in any doubt: the Heir of Slytherin had killed again. Luckily for me I was nowhere near the body when they found it, which spared me another mauling at the hands of Hunt and Tyler.

Denied their favourite whipping boy, the Aurors took out their frustrations on the castle itself. A gang of marauding bandits could not have done more damage. Walls were knocked through, furnishings torn down, classrooms and corridors overturned. Every known secret passage and room was ransacked for clues. They even led an expedition into the trackless depths of the Forbidden Forest but to no avail. The Heir of Slytherin could not be found.

Faced with an imminent scandal the Ministry of Magic did what all public institutions do in times of crisis - find a scapegoat. In this they surpassed themselves by finding no less than two at Hogwarts. The first to go was Hagrid, who I learned later had some previous history involving dangerous beasts attacking students. The Aurors spirited him away to Azkaban in the night. I did not care. I was more concerned about the Ministry's next offering on the altar of public outrage: Dumbledore himself. With Malfoy's father leaning heavily on the college's board of governors, and Fudge's personal jealousy, it was relatively easy to squeeze Dumbledore out of office.

Don't misunderstand me - personally I did not give a jot for the old git. But he was a powerful wizard; still the best duellist I ever saw, even after all these years. Without him to protect the castle we might as well have organised official 'Muggle hunting' parties with sherry and nibbles served in the Great Hall afterwards.

A number of parents withdrew their children the week after Dumbledore left. Most of us stayed on but from that time we lived in a state of almost constant anxiety. Even the Purebloods were scared. Who was to say that the Heir of Slytherin would not turn on half-bloods next or on those with Muggleborns in their family trees? Extra safety measures were brought in – Quidditch was cancelled, Aurors patrolled the corridors, teachers escorted their students between lessons – but they only served to heighten the tension.

Ron and I felt the consequences of Dumbledore's departure first hand in early March, a few weeks after Clearwater was killed. We were making our way back to the common room (you did not hang around the corridors if you could help it) when we heard raised voices coming from a nearby courtyard. We turned aside to see what was going on. An amateur duel made great street theatre – the participants were as likely to jinx themselves as each other. If things got nasty we could always slip away before any teachers arrived.

What we found was far from your ordinary student scuffle. A first year Hufflepuff had been surrounded by a group of older students. The older ones were dressed in plain robes, so that you could not tell which house they belonged to, and simple white hoods cut out of bed sheets to cover their heads. They were jostling the first year, pointing their wands at him and jeering:

'Mudblood!'

'Go home, you Muggle bastard!'

'Get lost!'

The first year was sobbing and trying to make himself heard:

'P-please. I-I haven't d-done _anything!'_

'Mudblood filth!' spat one of the older students, who sounded suspiciously like Draco Malfoy, 'It's time we ran you all out of the castle.' He flicked his wand and the first year rose into the air, his arms and legs splayed like a spider climbing up a wall. The boy squealed as the spell began to pull his limbs out of their sockets. Some of the hooded students laughed. Others just watched with grim approval.

'Time to make ourselves scarce,' I whispered to Ron. We turned to go, only to meet Neville Longbottom coming the other way.

'Harry? What the devil's going on here?' he demanded. The other students turned and spotted the three of us.

'This is nothing to do with you, Longbottom,' said the Malfoy sound-a-like, 'You're a Pureblood, although Merlin knows you don't act like it.'

Longbottom stared aghast at the whimpering first year, who had turned a bright shade of purple.

'Let him go,' he said, drawing his wand. Six of the hooded students turned their wands on him in turn.

'Don't you see?' said one, a girl, 'This is the only way to protect ourselves. The Ministry can't help us; they're powerless against the Heir. We have to drive the mudbloods out or we will all be killed!'

'This is your last warning,' said Longbottom coolly. Malfoy scoffed.

'There's nearly a dozen of us. Back down, Longbottom. We're not afraid to hurt you.'

'I'm not alone. Harry, Ron - to me!'

Damn him to the deepest pits of hell! I had almost managed to slip away while Longbottom was busy doing the decent thing. No such luck. Longbottom was such a muddled ass that he probably thought he was doing us a favour. Well, I couldn't very well back out now without losing face could I? I strode forth from the archway, flourishing my wand dramatically.

'We're with you, Neville!' I boomed, striking a suitably heroic pose while making sure to keep Neville between me and the bulk of the mob.

My fame, both as the Boy Who Lived and as the student who beat Gilderoy Lockhart, seemed to have some effect. Whoever was torturing the little first year lifted their spell and he dropped like a stone. The hooded students clustered around him like hyenas over a fresh kill.

'Well there we go,' I said breezily, 'That's that sorted then. Let's be on our way, shall we Neville?'

'We have to take him to Madam Pomfrey,' he said, still pointing his wand at the others.

'Try it,' sneered Malfoy. I sidled behind Ron while trying to make it look like I was covering Neville's flank.

'Have it your way then,' he said, taking a step forward. A hex flashed from Malfoy's wand. Neville deflected it and responded with a jet of red light that threw Malfoy across the courtyard. The other hooded students raised their wands to attack when there was a sudden cacophony, as if dozens of bells, all of different sizes, had suddenly started ringing. I was already two corridors away, having fled with the speed and discretion of a born coward when the first spell was cast, but I learned afterwards from Ron that a team of Aurors had descended on the courtyard. There was a brief skirmish, in which most of the students disappeared, but a few of the mob were caught (not Malfoy, sadly).

The culprits were swiftly expelled but that did not stop the attacks. Muggleborns were soon afraid to leave their dormitories without an escort. Hermione even insisted that Ron and I stand guard outside the bathroom when she went to the toilet, although I wondered at the time what help she thought we would be against an angry mob. Some of them were racist bastards who just needed an excuse to cause trouble but many were simply trying to preserve their own skin by running all the Muggleborns out of the castle. The Aurors and the teachers tried in vain to stamp it out but every now and then some unlucky Muggleborn would take a jinx in the back and spend the next week in the Hospital Wing with toadstools growing out of their gums.

With all this violence and anxiety going on around me, can you blame me for seeking out a bit of totty? It was around this time that I first made the acquaintance of 'Moaning' Myrtle. And no, she was not a ghost. She was a fifth year student in Ravenclaw and very much alive. Now, I am not saying that she had a reputation for being 'easy', but I have a good authority that she once took Gregory Goyle into her well-worn bed. Not that I was bothered. A straightforward, uncomplicated shag was what I wanted. If that meant having to take a generous dose of Clarence Cumberbatch's 'Cure All Clap' Cordial the next day, so be it. Besides, I was intrigued to hear the vocal displays that had earned her such a distinctive nickname.

Smuggling a girl past the Aurors into the common room would have been all but impossible, even with my invisibility cloak, so I arranged to meet her in the second floor girl's bathroom where Ron and I had tried to create our 'monster' before Christmas. She was a cracking little piece; all saucy blue eyes and curls. We soon set to in one of the cubicles, rattling the cistern as her screams echoed from the tiled walls.

Yes, we were having a fine old time of it when I heard a noise outside. Somebody coming into the bathroom? Possibly but it wouldn't be the first time that had happened to me. I tend to press on with the task at hand and trust in the interloper's discretion. But this did not sound like a door opening. It was a grinding noise, like stone blocks scraping against one another. Then there was a voice speaking, although I caught only a few words over Myrtle's cries:

'_Seek… Muggles… cleanse… all of them… master's bidding…'_

By now Myrtle had stopped and was simply sitting astride me, head on one side, looking puzzled. I gave her a slap on the rump.

'Come on, girl!' I hissed, 'Don't mind them. They'll go away.' She ignored me. I could hear the voice more clearly now. It was a high, hissing voice, very slow and cruel:

'_… smell their blood. I go to feast. Tender flesh of Muggles and blood traitors…'_

'Who is that?' Myrtle murmured. She climbed off me, pulled her knickers back on and turned towards the door.

'Leave it alone!' I squeaked.

'I'll just take a peak,' she said, easing the door open. By now I was whimpering, curled up on the toilet seat. I caught a glimpse of something brilliant green outside and then I buried my head in my hands. I heard a 'thud' as Myrtle fell and then something large and scaly slithered across the tiles. I just sat in my cubicle and tried not to make a sound.

After an age, which probably lasted no more than a few minutes, there was the same stony, grinding noise and then silence. It took me even longer to uncurl and venture, inch by inch, out into the bathroom. Everything was still. Myrtle's body lay face down on the tiles. There was not a mark on her, nor any trace of the creature that killed her. As soon as I was sure that it was not lurking behind the door for me, I leap out of that bathroom and ran as fast as I could back to Gryffindor Tower and my stash of firewhisky.

And that, children, is how I discovered the location of the Chamber of Secrets. It wasn't very heroic but then, I am not a hero. I only pretend to be one.

As soon as I had calmed down, with the help of half a dozen stiff drinks, I realised the full import of what had happened. I had found the entrance to the Chamber. I was perhaps the only person alive who knew of it, apart from the Heir himself. And I was determined to keep it that way: the only person _alive. _I resolved that night to say not a word to anybody. The Aurors had already searched the castle – Myrtle's body would be no help to them. If I told them what I knew they would only expect me to lead some damn fool monster hunt into the Chamber. That is if the Heir did not kill me first. No, silence was the best course all around.

And that would have been the last I had to do with the Chamber of Secrets if Ron's sister hadn't got herself kidnapped.


	18. A Slippery Snake

**Chapter 18: A Slippery Snake**

In the days after Myrtle's unfortunate demise, Hogwarts became a veritable ghost town. Not because people were leaving – that bright idea was denied us by the Aurors, who seemed to have not even the slightest shred of common sense. Any halfway intelligent chap could have told them that evacuating the school would result in fewer ghastly corpses littering the corridors, but no. Hunt and Tyler, in their infinite wisdom, wanted to keep the culprit in one location. It made a certain amount of sense, I suppose, although quite how they had ruled out the possibility of some nefarious git breaking into the school, I wasn't entirely sure.

It had taken them a fair while to actually find Myrtle's corpse, which I felt a little guilty about. Her absence had been noticed, of course, but no-one looked in the bathroom for ages. Fortunately, the Wizarding World didn't seem to have tumbled to the notion of forensics, so there was no danger of them finding out I'd been the last person to see her alive, more or less. As a result, Hunt and Tyler had once again been denied the opportunity to beat the shit out of me in the name of law, for which I was as profoundly grateful as you can imagine.

It was all too good to last, however.

Thinking the ability to vanish into thin air was a decent precaution to take in those troubling times, I had taken to carrying my Invisibility Cloak at all times. It hadn't had much use since I acquired it, the odd booze run aside, although sneaking up behind some bird and goosing them was always amusing. They usually blamed Peeves. Anyway, I was making my way back to the common room under the Cloak, having popped out for a quick smoke. Hermione had never liked the habit, and while I didn't really give a toss what she thought about it as a rule, on this occasion she had kicked up such a stink that the only two options were to back down gracefully or hex her in the mouth.

I'm sure you can deduce which option I preferred, but common sense (and a chronic lack of ability) over-ruled me.

As I passed the fourth floor, I heard the sound of whispered conversation. I paused, standing there with one foot hovering over the next step on the moving staircases. Something furtive was going on, and the sound of it appealed to me. I highly recommend eavesdropping as a hobby – you never know when you'll pick up something juicy that can be used as blackmail material. Of course, the possibility that there was something dangerous at the other end of the corridor occurred to me, but as I said, Invisibility Cloak. If it can't see you, it can't hurt you. As an interesting side note, if you can't be seen no-one can denounce you as a cowardly blaggard when you run away from something dangerous, so I was quite literally covered for both occurrences. With this thought in mind, I crept down the passage towards the speakers. When I found them, my blood ran cold.

The entire faculty stood gathered around a wall, reading another message daubed on the wall.

_Her body will lie in the Chamber forever._

It was clear that someone had been taken. Merlin only knew why. McGonagall was sounding forth about strength and unity and all that bollocks, while Lockhart was wittering on about having known that something like this was going to happen. I was pleased to see that I wasn't the only one who couldn't conceal a look of pure disgust.

And then: "Of course, I'm sure I can find her. It's obvious where the Chamber is concealed, isn't it?"

Not a one of the staff paid this any attention, each one of them apparently well used to tuning out his usual rubbish. It did give me an idea though…Hurrying away, I made my way back to the Common Room, plotting with every step. I burst through the entrance with rather more enthusiasm than any of us had mustered over the last few months, looking forward to outlining my cunning scheme to Ron – only to find the room sunk in misery. Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"Who died?" I asked, only to find myself skewered by a variety of glares far more deadly than any curse. I recoiled, and slunk over to Cormac.

"Seriously, what's wrong with everyone? And where's Ron?"

"Haven't you heard?" Cormac asked me incredulously. "His sister – Ginny, is it?"

"That's the one, yes," I said with a nod. "What happened?"

"The Heir got her. Took her to the Chamber."

I sat back in my chair, genuinely horrified. I didn't know her that well, but she had seemed like a nice girl. I couldn't believe that she was gone, just like that. I mean, I hadn't even had the chance to _ask_ her if she fancied a quick fumble yet, never mind actually manage one (for future reference, as I look back on this day I bitterly regret my next actions. I should have just left her there to rot; my life would have been infinitely easier).

"So Ron…"

"McGonagall took him and his brothers off," Cormac informed me, taking a sip of his drink. "Damn shame."

"Absolutely," I murmured absently. This was serious. Ron was far from the brightest wand in the shop, but he was a steadfast and gullible companion. There was no-one else whose aid I could be so sure of. My scheme was in ruins.

And so I turned to drink, as ever. The next few hours passed quietly, none of us feeling up to so much as a game of Exploding Snap, until finally the portrait door swung open. I looked up, and was elated to find Ron stepping through, followed by his twin brothers. Their faces were ashen. I waved them over, although only Ron headed my way. The twins headed up the stairs to the dorm, apparently not feeling companionable at that stage. Ron sat down opposite me, and I plastered a commiserating expression on my face.

"I heard the news, old man. Terrible thing, just terrible." I poured him a glass of whiskey and slid it along the table to him. Cormac had long since passed out, preferring to drink quickly rather than savour it. Ron accepted the glass gratefully, tossing it down his throat in one smooth motion.

"Thanks, Harry," he said quietly.

"If there's anything I can do, just let me know," I told him, laying the seeds carefully. He leant forward in his chair, his eyes bright.

"I want to find her. I want to find _him_, and I want to…" He trailed off, but he didn't really need to elaborate. In his position, I would have a few choice things to say and do to this Heir.

I smiled a conspiratorial smile, and leant in closer to him. "Ron old man, I think I might know just the fellow…"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"You're sure he'll be able to help?" Ron whispered as we made our way along the corridor.

"Of course," I said breezily. "He said it himself! He wouldn't lie, would he?"

"I suppose not," Ron said. I rolled my eyes. If I had ever needed proof that Ron was a terminally poor judge of character…We were, naturally, creeping through the school in the dead of night, shrouded in my Invisibility Cloak, on our way to make a request of Gilderoy Lockhart. I knew, of course, that he would do everything in his power to get out of it, because he had absolutely no idea where the Chamber of Secrets was, and even if he had known he wasn't going to set foot within a mile of the place.

But I knew where it was. And if I could trap him into refusing help to someone in need, then I had him exactly where I wanted him for life. I refrained from rubbing my hands with glee, because that sort of behaviour is really reserved for wizards of a rather darker character than I have ever lowered myself to, but it was a close run thing.

We arrived at Lockhart's quarters, and Ron rapped his knuckles against the door, shucking the Cloak. There was a sudden silence, highlighting activity behind the door that I hadn't yet noticed. After several moments, the door opened ever so slightly to reveal Lockhart's pale visage peeking round.

"Oh! Master Weasley…Harry."

"Good evening, sir!" I said cheerfully, pushing the door wide open and barging past him. Ron followed me, both of us ignoring Lockhart's ineffectual spluttering. I looked around the room and grinned to myself. The portraits had dust sheets over them, and the room was scattered with packing cases. We had clearly caught Lockhart in the process of making a moon-light flit. Perfect. "Where you going somewhere?"

"Oh…yes, actually. Urgent family matter, have to leave immediately…"

"But…you can't!" Ron cried out. "My sister…"

I smothered a grin as Lockhart paled still further. This was fantastic.

"Look, Weasley, I'm truly sorry about your sister but there isn't anything I can do! Wizards have tried to find the Chamber of Secrets for centuries, how am I supposed to find it?" He ran his hands through his hair in agitation, and the perfect curls came apart, sticking out as if he had been hit with a burst of static electricity.

"But Harry said you knew where it was," Ron said, baffled. Lockhart flicked his eyes towards me and I nodded.

"I heard you. Talking to the other staff. Said you knew exactly where it was."

"But that – that was…"

"You weren't _lying_ were you, Professor?" I asked, trying to sound shocked. Lockhart glared at me, finally realising exactly what I was up to. "Why would you do something like that?"

"Potter…"

"It's alright, Ron, he's just being modest," I said, cutting him off. "Of course he knows where it is. There's a portal in the girls bathroom on the second floor – where Myrtle was found. Isn't that right, Professor?"

"I – what?"

"Come on, we'll see you safely there, don't worry."

Lockhart stared at me for a moment, the cogs clearly working overtime to work out how he was going to get out of this. I could almost see them clicking into place as he made his decision, and he nodded. "I'll just assemble a few things, gentlemen."

He turned away, none too subtly reaching for his wand, and I barked out a command. "Dudders!"

The house-elf appeared with a crack, and immediately clicked his fingers. Lockhart's wand leapt from his fingers as if he had been stung, and Dudders plucked it out of the air with a grin.

"Thank you, Dudders," I said lazily.

"It was a pleasure, Master Harry, Dudders is delighted to be commanded by the masterful Harry Potter sir, such an honour-"

"Yes, that's quite enough. What did you do with the camera?" I said this with one eye on Lockhart, and watching him fall back into a chair in horror was pure poetry.

"Dudders has it here and safe, Master Harry! Many photos, yes indeed, many photos of the virtuous Harry Potter, all for-"

"Excellent." I looked at Lockhart again and smiled, showing teeth. "Shall we?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

We made our way towards the bathroom in silence. Ron was far too focussed on Ginny for conversation, while Lockhart was having what can best be described as a sulk. As for myself, I was still revelling in having successfully manoeuvred Lockhart into trying to attack two 'innocent' students on camera. I was set for life, with that. When we arrived, Ron pushed the door open and strode in, looking around for the entrance. Lockhart and I followed at a more easy-going pace, and I shot Ron a meaningful look. He frowned, confused.

"Ron, you're standing in…"

He looked down, and promptly took a step to the left, out of the head of the chalk outline still marking the place where Myrtle had shuffled off. He looked fleetingly embarrassed, then the mindless (very, very mindless) determination slunk back. "So where's the entrance?"

I hesitated. In truth, I didn't know exactly, but I didn't think it would be too hard to find. Myrtle had died there, facing the sinks, and the beastie, whatever it was, had promptly disappeared. So it followed that the entrance was probably in her line of sight. Which meant the sinks themselves. And people say I'm thick! I approached the sinks and examined them one by one, confident in Dudders' willingness to keep an eye on Lockhart. He wouldn't be wrestling his wand back any time soon. The sinks were mostly uniform, but there was one with an interesting carving on it…in the flickering torch light, the snake seemed to writhe, and I took a step back, almost unconsciously hissing _"Open_" at it. Behind me, Lockhart whimpered at the sound of Parseltongue.

The sinks shuddered, and the marble split apart ponderously to reveal a filthy, murky tunnel. I peered over the edge and took a brisk step back.

"Right. Well, that's that sorted. Off you go, Gilderoy."

He looked at me, aghast. "Potter, if you seriously think that I'm going down there…"

"What makes you think you've got a choice?" I asked him quietly. "You'll go down there, and we'll go and let McGonagall know that you've gone on ahead." And we would. Eventually. "That should give you plenty of time to crack on with the actual, you know, messy business."

"We're going with him," Ron said.

I looked at him. I looked at him hard. "Ron. What?"

"We're going with him!" Ron insisted. "We're going to save my sister now, we don't have time for anything else!"

"Capital idea," Lockhart said with a grin. "After you, Harry."

"Ah. Ah-ha. Erm." I looked around, trying to figure out a suitable excuse. "I really think that at least one of us ought to stay behind. Lockhart's the alleged hero, so he ought to go. Ron, you obviously want to help your sister personally, very admirable. The best possible thing for me to do is to alert the other staff members, wouldn't you agree?"

"No, we'll need every wand we can muster," Ron said mulishly. I resisted the urge to clout him round the head. "And Dudders can take the message. That's what house-elves are for, isn't it?"

"Very well put, Mister Weasley!" Lockhart exclaimed, wagging a finger at me. "Come on now, Harry, best foot forward…"

I looked between him and Ron, and made a decision. "Alright, if that's the way it's going to be…" And then I reached out and shoved Lockhart backwards, into the tunnel. He toppled backwards with a stunned cry, and I dusted my hands off in satisfaction. "Well, that's that then. Come along, Ron. We should have time for a quick drink before we alert the others, what do you say?"

"No, we're going now!"

And then the bloody fool grabbed my hand and jumped after Lockhart, dragging me with him.

Bastard.


	19. The Chamber of Secrets

Chapter 19: The Chamber of Secrets

I clung to Ron as we plunged blindly down the pipe. Thankfully it was not a sheer drop or we would have both broken our necks at the bottom. Instead the pipe levelled out in a gentle curve, rather like a children's slide, depositing us at the bottom only a few grazes worse for the experience. We were in some sort of underground tunnel, dimly lit by bunches of phosphorescent moss that clung to the walls and ceiling. The floor was thick with mud and dotted with pools of stinking, brackish water.

We had just managed to disentangle our limbs from one another when a black shape pounced on us from the shadows. I screamed and kicked like a mule. The dark shape fell back and rebounded onto Ron. While they grappled in the slime, I got up onto my hands and knees and tried to make my escape. I say try for, although I intended to try and climb back up the pipe to safety, I lost all sense of direction in my panic and actually ended up crawling along the tunnel.

'Stay where you are!' cried a voice. I froze. Turning back I could see Lockhart, his golden hair foul with mud, standing over Ron. He had seized Ron's wand and was now pointing it at me.

'You little shit!' he said, spittle flying from his mouth, 'Thought you could send me down here to be killed, didn't you?'

'Now, Gilderoy, let's not do anything we might regret…'

'Shut up!' he barked, 'I may not be powerful enough to use the Killing Curse but I do happen to be rather good with Memory charms. I'll turn you and Weasley here into drooling vegetables and leave you for the Heir of Slytherin.'

I believe he really meant it too. But before Lockhart could do anything to us, he was distracted by a guttural roar further down the tunnel. Suddenly Ron was on his feet again, sinking his fist into Lockhart's stomach. I was already off down the tunnel, which I found branched off in many different directions. It did not look like it had been carved by wizards or goblins; more like a natural cave system, deep beneath the foundations of Hogwarts. I took one of the turnings at random and dived behind a stalagmite. It was as tall and thick as an oak tree, and a good place to hide until the monstrosity who lived down there had finished with Ron and Lockhart.

'Harry? Harry, where have you gone?' Damn him for a loud mouthed fool! Ron had followed me. I poked my head out round the stalagmite.

'Would you shut up and hide,' I hissed to him. We heard another roar, closer now. Huge, heavy feet were blundering towards us. I grabbed Ron and pulled him behind the stalagmite.

'What about Ginny? We need to -' I clapped my hand over Ron's mouth.

'Shut up,' I whispered. Something big was drawing near, sniffing and snuffling after us like a bloodhound. We heard Lockhart shriek, just yards away, making me jump like a scalded cat. Another roar and a huge, man-like shape was looming down on us. There was a flash of light as Lockhart tried to hex it but that only made it shout louder.

A knobbly grey hand the size of a car wheel was thrust round the stalagmite, pawing blindly at us. Ron and I yelped and jumped back. The hand reached for us again, forcing us round the stalagmite and out into the open. I looked up at the tiny coconut-like head perched on top of the hulking grey body and screamed:

'Troll! Run!'

The troll swung at us with its club but we were already well out of reach. It bellowed with frustration and gave chase. Ron and I ran back along the tunnel, turned a corner, and collided with Lockhart, who was coming the other way. We stood for a second in terrified bewilderment and then began to sprint along the tunnel together, pushing and shoving at one another as we ran. After all, we did not have to outrun the troll; we only had to outrun each other.

I stuck my leg out in front of Lockhart to trip him but the swine skipped over it with ease. He jabbed backwards with elbow, hitting me in the stomach and winding me. I bent double, gasping, as the troll lumbered towards me. To his credit, Ron did turn back when he saw that I had fallen behind (which is more than I would have done), crying:

'Harry! No!'

The troll raised its club to strike. I got my hand to my wand but I had no breath left for an incantation. The club descended.

At that moment something huge, even bigger than the troll, shot out of a side tunnel. Fangs like sword blades plunged into the troll's shoulder, provoking a surprisingly high pitched scream. The troll hammered at its attacker with its club but to no avail; the creature's vivid green hide was impervious to its blows. With another shriek the troll was dragged down the side tunnel, leaving me behind.

I sprang up and fled down the tunnel, away from the opening that had just disgorged the terrible green monster. I vaguely remember a voice calling after me, probably Ron's, but I was blind and deaf with terror. My only thought was to put as much distance between myself and whatever lived down here. Even now, after seventy years, I occasionally relive that flight through the caves in my nightmares. On and on I went, each dimly lit tunnel indistinguishable from the last, always certain that sabre-fanged death lurked around the next corner.

Suddenly the ground disappeared beneath me. For a second I thought I had stepped into a ravine but it was only a steep slope. I rolled to the bottom, where I landed painfully on something hard and sharp. Raising my head, I found myself staring into the black sockets of a troll's skull. I screamed. The floor was covered in their bones, several layers deep. I scrambled up, smaller bones snapping beneath my feet, and plunged on into the caves.

I could not tell you how long I ran but at length I found myself standing before a cave mouth. It was flanked by two columns resembling a pair of cobras, their spread hoods forming the capitals. Not the most cheery of decorations but it was the only sign of civilisation that I had seen since leaving the girl's bathroom, so I entered the cave with a cautious sense of hope.

I discovered that it was not a cave at all but a chamber, with a level floor and smooth sided walls. The high roof was supported by many free standing columns, each one carved to resemble a different type of snake. It was well lit by many magical flames set in alcoves in the walls. At the far end of the chamber, facing the entrance, was a giant statue of a wizard with a cruel, monkey-like face. At its feet was a chair of stone with a high backrest, like a throne. Sitting on the chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap, was Ginny Weasley.

'Ginny!' I hissed, not daring to raise my voice, 'Ginny, is there another door out of here?'

'There is no escape,' she replied in a flat monotone. Under normal circumstances this would have made me suspicious. The same goes for the way she did not look at me when she spoke but stared fixedly in one direction, but at that moment I was distracted by the fear of an immediate and painful death in the jaws of monsters known and unknown.

'Yes there is. There's a – a pipe, up to a bathroom in the castle,' I explained, taking a few steps towards her, 'We're here on a, err – that is to say_ I _am here to rescue you.'

'The girl will never leave.'

'Oh just get over here, you silly tart, We can't hang a – What did you say?' Something icy cold trickled into my bowels

'The girl will never leave,' Ginny continued in the same dispassionate voice, 'She is my chosen vessel; the channel of my glory.'

'Wh-who are you?'

'I am the Heir of Slytherin.'

'What? No, you – you can't be. You're a Gryffindor, for God's sake!'

'The girl is merely a vessel._ I_ am the Heir: the one who will cleanse the castle of Muggle filth.'

'B-b-but you can't be,' I stammered, '_I'm _the Heir – Salazar Slytherin's direct descendant.'

'You lie. I am the Heir.'

'No, _I'm _the Heir!'

'You lie. Behold, I command the beast of the Chamber,' said Ginny. Then she called out in the hissing voice of the Parselmouth: '_Come to me, my slave. Come, child of Slytherin. Slay the lying fool who stands before me.'_

'Shut up!' I cried, dashing forward, 'Shut up! You'll get us both killed!' But she continued to call:

'_Come, my slave. Come with your bright fangs. Come with your deadly gaze.'_

I was right in front of her now. 'Just shut up, will you?' I bawled, trying to drown her out, 'Shut _up!'_ Unable to think of anything else, I punched her as hard I could.

Yes, I hit a sixteen year old girl in the face. Not my finest moment, it's true, but I did stop her calling for Slytherin's pet. I may be a physical coward but I was also very athletic young man. My blow knocked Ginny out of the stone chair and dislodged a book that had been lying open on her lap that I had not previously noticed.

I scanned the chamber in desperation but I could see no other doors. The only way out was the main entrance and I expected Slytherin's monster to come charging through it any second. Seeing no other course, I slipped behind one of the pillars, leaving Ginny at the foot of the colossal statue. Perhaps I could slip out unnoticed while the monster was eating her. If this appals you then all I can say is: wait until you are trapped in a dungeon with a thousand year old horror coming after you. Ten-to-one, you would push your sweet little grandmother into its jaws to save your own skin.

So I waited, crouched behind the pillar, ears straining for the slightest sound. I could hear something approaching the entrance to the chamber. At first I thought it was claws scuttling on the stone but as it drew closer I realised they were far too small. They were human feet. I risked a peek out from my hiding place.

Lockhart emerged from the shadows of the tunnel. He was covered in mud, scratched and grazed from his passage through the caves; almost unrecognisable as the pampered dandy who regularly graced the cover of _Witch Weekly. _He stumbled into the light, spotted Ginny lying at the foot of the statue, and turned back the way he had come. Unfortunately for him, he had not noticed that he had been followed. I had. From my hiding place I could see it looming behind him: a dark shape in the shadowy entrance. Lockhart turned, saw the creature, and fell backwards. He was dead before his boots left the ground.

I had never heard of a basilisk, let alone what it could do to a chap, but what I had just seen impressed upon me one simple, urgent fact: don't look at the bloody thing. I screwed my eyes up tight, sank down onto my haunches, and prayed with the desperate faith of the truly terrified that it would not find me. I could hear its scales rasping softly on the stone floor as it undulated into the chamber. It was approaching the giant statue. Had it seen Ginny? Was it safe to make a dash for it? How quickly dare I move? I had just started to edge my way around the pillar when a voice shouted from the doorway:

'Get away from my sister, you bastard!'

It was Ron, once again displaying the most appalling timing. If he brought the basilisk back over to the entrance it would block my escape route. I was trapped! I could already hear the snake shifting its huge bulk back towards the doorway.

'Oh Merlin!' Ron whimpered, 'Help! Oh bloody hell, somebody _help me!'_

What happened next was so extraordinary, so unbelievable, that it overcame my all-powerful sense of self-preservation and made me open my eyes. I heard a bird cry; a single, beautiful soprano note, like an eagle but sweeter and richer. I looked round the pillar and saw a large, swan-like bird with scarlet plumage swooping down towards Ron. The bird dropped a bundle at his feet, and then shot at the basilisk like a crimson arrow. The serpent shrieked as the bird raked its head with its talons. Dark blood splashed across the chamber. The bird dived again, slashing at the basilisk's eyes. Another blow and it was blinded.

The last thing I remember seeing was the basilisk rearing back, its jaws thrown open in a high-pitched shriek, the bird circling just out of its reach, and Ron, miniscule next to the snake, advancing with a naked sword gleaming in his hand. I wish I could describe the thrilling battle that followed; the basilisk lunging blindly at the plucky young wizard; the death blows avoided by a hair's breadth; the sword blade flashing back and forth; the dark blood spurting from the green hide. But I can't. If you want that sort of thing, go read my children's book. In reality, I was hiding in a corner with my head in my hands and missed the whole thing.

It was not until absolute silence had descended on the chamber that I risked a glance out. The basilisk was sprawled in the middle of the chamber, numerous bloody wounds in its side. A great pool of blood was seeping from a gash just below its head; that had been the killing stroke, I guessed. Ron was lying nearby, the sword clutched defiantly in his hand. He was still breathing, albeit shallowly.

The big red bird landed on the basilisk's head and glared pointedly at me.

'Oh sod off,' I muttered, 'You did alright without me, didn't you?'

The bird gave a croak that sounded unpleasantly like laughter. It fluttered across the chamber to where Ginny lay and began pecking at the book that had fallen out of her lap when I hit her.

'What are you doing?' I said, following. The bird squawked and continued to worry the book, like a vulture tearing strips off a corpse.

'Look leave it alone, will you? Bad birdie! For heaven's sake, it's just an old book,' I said, bending down to pick it up. The bird shrieked but my fingers had already touched the pages.

I find it very difficult to describe what happened next. How does one describe sunlight to a man who has spent his whole life in a cave? Or music to the deaf? What I remember most is the sensation of being pinned; fixed in place, both body and soul. I was like a butterfly in a collection, skewered by this terrible sense of hatred and insecurity. There was nothing to see; it was pure force, barely conscious of me or itself. Adolescent self-loathing and blind prejudice burned together like the heart of a star. I heard words, like some filthy Parseltongue mantra, thundering in time to the blood in my head:

'_I am the Heir. Kill the Mudbloods. I am the Heir. Purge the castle. I am the Heir. Kill the Mudbloods. I am the Heir. Purge the castle. I am the Heir. Kill the Mudbloods. I am the Heir. Purge the castle. I am the Heir. Kill the Mudbloods. I am the Heir. Purge the castle...'_

On and on it went, pounding though my head, a liturgy of blindest hatred. I must have screamed, although I could not hear it. I have vague memories of the red bird trying to tear the book out of my hands but I may have imagined it.

Muggle psychologists say that human beings have a 'fight or flight' instinct. I don't know if that's true for most people but I tend to have only one instinct when it comes to danger: flight. With my brain overwhelmed, my legs took over. I ran across the Chamber, the book still held out in front of me, and tripped over Ron's unconscious body. I fell forward, arms flung out ahead of me and, by the luckiest chance, impaled the book on the basilisk's fang.

The words in my head stopped instantly. A blast of untrammelled magic flung me, Ron, and the bird back across the Chamber. When I had stopped shaking and found the strength to pick myself up off the floor I saw the book hanging limply from the basilisk's mouth. Ink trickled from it in a steady stream, mixing itself with the pool of blood on the floor below.

* * *

'Close Hogwarts? Surely you can't be serious?'

'My dear Poppy, what other choice do we have? With Dumbledore gone, and now the Weasley girl –'

'But Hogwarts has_ never_ closed, not in a thousand years!'

'Believe me, if there was any other way I would take it. I am sorry, but the Heir of Slytherin has won.'

The door of the Headmaster's office crashed open. The teachers watched agog as I strode in, battered and bloodied but with a triumphant gleam in my eye. I had Ginny over my shoulder, the Sorting Hat on my head, and the sword of Gryffindor in my free hand. The red bird followed, Ron dangling unconsciously from its claws like a children's mobile.

'Don't worry, Professor,' I said, 'It's been taken care of.'


	20. Playing the Hero

**Chapter 20: Playing the Hero**

There was something about McGonagall's expression of dumb-founded bewilderment that warmed the cockles of my heart. The stone faced bitch had never liked me, all too aware of my extra-curricular activities, and so I imagined that the heroic vista must have been something of a slap in the face to her. There was a long silence as my words sank in. After a moment, I walked into the office and deposited my charge on Dumbledore's desk. Abruptly, the spell was broken.

"Potter! How did…what happened?" McGonagall sank into a chair as she spoke, shuddering with relief. I affected a compassionate, yet undeniably satisfied smile, and regaled them with the story of what had happened down there. Well, my version of it, anyway.

"It struck me that the bathroom was an odd place to attack someone. What would be the odds that there would be someone in a bathroom that's nowhere near any of the dorms or the library outside class hours? Very dodgy, and I didn't think the Heir had just popped in for a quick slash."

Behind McGonagall, Snape cleared his throat, folding his arms. I inclined my head towards him with an apologetic smile. "Apologies, but you know what I mean, Professor."

"I am not entirely ignorant of youthful vernacular, Potter," McGonagall remarked, still staring at Ginny's body. Her brother was still being clutched in the phoenix's talons, ignored by one and all.

"Quite. Well, Ron was determined that he was going to find Ginny, absolutely beside himself I'm afraid. I couldn't let him go off by himself though, he could have got himself killed! I told him that the place to start was the bathroom, but before we went there we stopped off to collect Professor Lockhart."

"Lockhart?" McGonagall looked up, skewering me with her gaze. "What's that buffoon got to do with this? And where is he?"

"I'm afraid he's…still down there, Professor," I told her solemnly. "He's dead."

"How dreadful," Snape murmured. I felt my lips twitch, and I hurriedly moved on.

"He wasn't as helpful as I'd anticipated, unfortunately – he was packing when we got there."

"Packing?"

"He was running away," I clarified. McGonagall's expression darkened.

"He's lucky he's dead, if that's the case!"

"Well, we weren't going to stand for that, Professor! Chap has to do his duty, after all. We convinced him to accompany us, but when we got there the entrance was already open. I led them both down, but Lockhart tried to curse us from behind. We fought him off, but we ended up deeper in the Chamber. Ginny was there, unconscious. We were trying to get her out of there when the monster arrived. A basilisk, I believe."

There was a collective intake of breath as I paused for effect. Madame Pomfrey was white as a sheet, her eyes wide and her mouth hidden behind her hand. I allowed myself a small shudder as if in horrified recollection, and she practically cooed. Satisfied with that – it never hurts to have a sympathetic nurse around – I continued.

"Ron tried to get Ginny out of the Chamber while I held the beast off. It was tough going, I don't mind telling you! I was holding my own though, and then the phoenix showed up."

"Yes, I wondered about that…" Snape said, leaning forward. "How on earth did Professor Dumbledore's phoenix know to aid you, Potter?"

I shrugged. "Magic, sir? I pulled the sword out of the Hat, and…well, that was that really. I've a touch of experience with a blade, of course, so I made short work of it." This was actually somewhat true; Smeltings had run a fencing club for a few terms, and although I had never taken it seriously – breeches were hardly my attire of choice, and the prospect of actually getting hurt for fun did not appeal – I knew my balestra from my fléche. Of course, even if I had been stupid enough to face down some mythical monster with a bit of metal, I was nowhere near talented enough to consider myself a serious blade-master, but there again, I doubted Ron had ever seen a sword before, so it couldn't have been that hard to use.

"Extraordinary," Snape murmured. He clearly didn't believe a word of it.

"I couldn't agree more, Severus!"

As a single unit, we spun round to face the back of the room. Hidden in the shadows stood a surprising figure: Albus Dumbledore. Where had he come from? Nearly a century later, and I still haven't quite worked that one out yet. Frankly, I'm past caring. Of course, McGonagall instantly forget anyone else was present, scurrying over to fawn on him like a cat that hasn't been fed for half an hour. He greeted her with a smile, of course, but he was watching me. There was a knowing glint in his eye, altogether different to Snape's burning suspicion. The Potions Master didn't believe my story, of course – as a habitual liar himself, he was no doubt skilled at spotting a kindred spirit. He had no proof though. Dumbledore, on the other hand…he looked for all the world as if he _knew_ that I had spun an elaborate web of bullshit around proceedings. Not just suspected, absolutely, categorically, _knew_.

The question was, what was he going to do about it?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Madame Pomfrey, I am afraid I must decline." I spoke politely but firmly, a steely look on my face (I hoped). "Ron and I are best friends – no, more than that; brothers in arms. I absolutely insist on staying here until he wakes up."

The batty old dear's eyes welled up, and she clasped my shoulder. "I…yes, of course, Harry. I'll be in my office if you need me. Take all the time you need."

I watched her go with satisfaction. I had waved off all her concern for my own injuries, claiming that all I needed was some bed rest (perfectly true, since I hadn't put myself in danger…with the exception of holding that diary, but if I was right I'd got away scot free from that). I had, however, affected deep concern for my valiant comrade. It was true I wanted to be the first person he saw when he woke up – but not because of any fellow feeling. No, I needed to make sure that we had our story straight. Which is to say, that he stuck to the script I was going to feed him. I was pretty confident, but I planned to surreptitiously practice the spell Lockhart had tried on us. To that end, Dudders was hovering patiently a few feet from my chair.

"_Obliviate!_"

There was a flicker of light over the elf's misshapen head, and he rocked back on his heels.

"Well?"

"Oh, very well done, Master Harry, a finely cast spell, Dudders cannot remember a single thing, no indeed…"

"For God's sake…" It appeared that I wasn't going to master this particularly subtle art in an hour; Dudders was far from helpful, claiming to be borderline amnesiac while his memory wasn't affected in the slightest. It was especially galling given that Lockhart of all people had managed it. I waved my hand. "Just bugger off, will you? Go and do whatever it is you lot do for fun."

The elf bowed extravagantly low, and then vanished with a crack. I cast a furtive glance towards Pomfrey's office, but it seemed she was asleep. Ron, on the other hand, sat bolt upright, his eyes going very wide indeed.

"Ginny!"

"Easy there, old man!" I said soothingly. "Ginny's fine, you don't need to worry about her."

He looked at me with wild eyes, then sagged. "Oh. Oh, that's good." He sank back into his bed, breathing deeply. He was still pale, covered in a film of grimy sweat. He wasn't a great advert for being a hero, really. "What happened down there?"

"You helped me save Ginny, just like any decent brother would," I told him. He looked at me with a questioning expression, as if I'd told him that the sky was green. So I continued. "Merlin only knows how, but Dumbledore's pet phoenix arrived with the bloody Sorting Hat. I pulled a sword out – the Sword of Gryffindor, if you can believe it! – and I killed the basilisk while you got Ginny out of there."

"I…are you sure? That's not…"

"Of course I'm sure." I leant in closer, fixing him with an intent stare. He squirmed slightly in the bed, looking away after a second. I smiled: I was sure I had him. "The Aurors will want a word with you at some point, I'm sure. You can remember it now?"

He nodded, still not looking at me.

"In perfect detail?"

"There's still a few things…"

"Then I suggest you work on your memory, Ron." I stood up, turning to leave.

"Harry? I thought…I thought I killed the basilisk…" He spoke in a small, confused voice. It did sound as if he was truly beginning to doubt his own memory. I looked over my shoulder and scoffed.

"You, kill a basilisk? Honestly Ron, who on earth would believe that?"

I left him to ponder that statement, confident that he would make the right choice.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Say one thing for me, I know how to bully people into submission.

Ron couldn't have been more effusive in his praise for my actions if I'd had him purpose built for the matter. I didn't sit in on his questioning, but Madame Pomfrey assured me that I would have blushed to hear it.

I left him a bottle by his bed. Seemed the least I could do. Well, I say I left it – I asked Cormac to drop it off for me. I was terribly busy on serious business of my own.

You see, while I had covered myself with Ron, there were other areas that I needed to clear up. Lockhart was dead, and couldn't say anything about me – but there was still the matter of the memory he had taken from Longbottom. Given that the little weasel was probably as paranoid as I would be about such matters, I doubted that he had any trusted confederates he would have left it with, but I was damned if I would leave it to luck. My first priority then was to recover the evidence. I didn't anticipate a great deal of difficulty. As I said, I doubted Lockhart would have involved anyone else, and even if he had opportunities to leave the castle had been scarce. I was sure the incriminating vial would still be in his quarters.

And of course, I had a house-elf.

Dudders retrieved the vial within an hour of my instructions – long before the Aurors had moved out of the Hospital Wing, and he hid the vial until I could safely dispose of it. When I say dispose of it, I naturally mean setting fire to it and throwing it to the giant squid. Simple, but effective. As I watched the squid sink beneath the rippling waters once more, a delicious notion occurred to me, and I called for Dudders once more. He was to make another trip to Lockhart's quarters.

The next morning, I smothered a grin behind a mouthful of bacon as the Daily Prophet's headline screamed the news at me.

_Lockhart: Hero or Villain?_

_By star reporter Rita Skeeter_

_In a sensational twist to the shocking reign of terror at Hogwarts, Aurors have indicated that famed wizard Gilderoy Lockhart may have been involved in the attacks. House-wives favourite Lockhart, famous for his numerous triumphs over dark wizards and creatures, and of course winner of the Witch Weekly Dazzling Smile award, took up the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at the school at the start of the academic year, and revolutionised the teaching of the subject._

_However, Aurors last night admitted that there was evidence suggesting Lockhart had been involved in the 'Heir of Slytherin' attacks…(cont. p.94)_

I carefully put the paper aside, and turned back to my breakfast. Seconds later, Hermione slammed her own copy down and fixed me with her most fearsome expression.

"Did you know about this?" she hissed. I shrugged. She had been quite quiet in the aftermath of my return from the Chamber; likely, she knew full well that my story was complete bollocks. However, she also knew Ron rather well, and was presumably just as confused as to how the useless lump could have done anything himself. And of course, she was in mourning for Lockhart.

"It makes sense," I told her. She scowled, and I continued, warming to my theme – and planning the best way to put it forward to the press. "He wasn't at the castle until this year, so this would have been his first opportunity to do anything, wouldn't it? Anyone else could have done it years ago. Unless you're going to accuse any of the firsties…"

She sat back, folding her arms tightly under her chest. I watched her blandly, admiring the effect on her breasts. Really, Granger would have been quite the catch if she'd put a little effort in – and of course, if she hadn't been far too valuable an asset to risk pissing her off over a quick romp. She did not look impressed with my logic, but she made no attempt to deny it.

"But why would he do it?" Seamus asked, leaning in from where he had apparently been eavesdropping.

"Who cares?" I asked. "Chap was obviously a nutcase, probably a dark wizard to boot. You don't do that sort of thing for a giggle, do you?"

"I reckon a lot of dark wizards do do it for a giggle, actually," Seamus mused, and I sighed.

"You know what I mean. Don't be a bloody idiot. Look, the bastard tried to wipe my memory, in case you're forgetting!"

"And you'd never do anything like that, would you?" Hermione commented darkly. I shot her an offended look.

"Of course I wouldn't." Because I couldn't cast the spell properly yet, mainly. Give me time though – I cared little for academic endeavours, but I could see a use for this beyond the classroom. She glared at me.

"How are Ron and Ginny?" Seamus asked, dismissing the previous discussion with nary a thought.

"They're ok. Ginny doesn't really remember anything, but she's fine. Madame Pomfrey was able to heal Ron though," Hermione explained. "They've both gone home early, just to recover."

"How come you're still here?" Seamus asked me, confused.

"Ah, well I wasn't as badly injured as Ron, of course," I said expansively. "And of course, he was extremely worried about his sister – wanted to look after her, you know."

"A most admirable sentiment."

I won't lie to you dear reader; I did very nearly jump out of my skin. Looking back over the decades, it seems that in every encounter I had with him, Albus Bloody Dumbledore never once made a straightforward entrance. I swear he got some sort of weird pleasure out of popping up where no one expected him. Opposite me, Hermione suddenly looked very flustered – I'm not certain she had ever really met Dumbledore before, certainly not properly. Seamus was staring almost goggle-eyed at him. I took the time to straighten myself up, and then I turned round, smiling pleasantly.

"Professor Dumbledore, how are you?"

"Very well thank you, Harry," the old wizard replied solemnly. "I trust you are fully recovered from your ordeal?"

"Oh, perfectly sir, perfectly," I told him, waving a hand breezily. "All in a day's work, you know."

"Quite." Dumbledore smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "In that case, could I perhaps prevail upon you to join me in my office for a while?"

I paused. This sounded ominous. I really did not want to follow the devious sod anywhere – it could be disastrous. However, I could hardly say no, so I inclined my head with a forced smile. "Of course, sir. I'll just finish this, then I'll be with you."

"Take your time, dear boy." With a slight bow, Dumbledore strolled away, nodding genially at a few students as he walked. Seamus watched him go with a slack jaw.

"Bloody hell…never thought I'd get this close to him!"

I watched him go with rather less enthusiasm. What did he have in store for me? Nothing pleasant, I was sure.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"Potter! What the fuck have you been up to?!"

"Auror Hunt," I said, leaning back to avoid a glob of spittle. "Always a pleasure and a privilege. What can I do for you today?"

Despite my outward bravado, it was all I could do not to quake where I stood. I'm not the sort of soul who can easily stand up to bullies – being one myself, the idea has always seemed faintly ridiculous to me – and when I have been forced into some sort of confrontation I have generally relied on smooth words and manipulation of people and facts to come out on top. Sadly, where Hunt was concerned, words meant precisely sod all. Fancy talk with him was more likely to get my teeth shaken out of my jaw again than anything else. However, I flashed him a winning smile and crossed the room to take a seat. I leant back in the chair and crossed my legs, trying to appear at ease.

He looked at me with deep seated loathing. Well, I suppose I did write-off his car. People can take that sort of thing personally.

"Mr Hunt, if you could moderate your language? Harry is still a student, remember." Dumbledore was looking balefully at the Auror over his glasses. To my astonishment, Hunt actually flushed, and squirmed a little. The oaf was _embarrassed_!

"We'd just like to get your view of the matter, Harry," Tyler said, shaking his head in exasperation. It was comforting to know that I wasn't the only one who thought that Hunt was a brainless lump of meat. I sat down opposite Tyler, my thoughts whirling furiously. Lying to the staff was one thing, I did that on a daily basis. Aurors though…I had managed it before, of course, but this was for higher stakes.

"Ask away, Mr Tyler, ask away."

And ask away they did. I stuck rigidly to my guns, telling them again and again that I had killed the basilisk, that Ron had been protecting Ginny and nothing more than that, and that Lockhart had tried to kill us. They were very interested in that, as you might expect. Most of all, they wanted to know if I knew anything about the diary that they had found in his room. It reeked of dark magic, with a gaping wound right through it. Traces of basilisk venom on the edges, apparently.

Naturally, I said that I didn't know anything about it. I certainly didn't tell them that I had got Dudders to put it in his room for me. For that matter, I didn't say anything about the enchanted toothpaste that Dudders had replaced. They didn't ask about it, but I knew it would be found if it hadn't already. The article in the _Prophet_ this morning suggested it might have been.

Hunt kept trying to trick me into contradicting myself, but as the interrogation went on it became steadily clearer that they had nothing to use against me other than a deep and fervent dislike of me. I sympathised. But I wasn't going to just sit there and answer their questions, however inaccurately, oh no.

"He must have been brighter than he seemed," I mused during a lull in the questions. Hunt shot me an unpleasant look.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, he had that diary in his room…I mean, you searched the castle, didn't you? A whole team of dark wizard hunters, in fact."

Hunt's eyes narrowed, clearly recognising the opening gambit of a stitch up. He probably didn't appreciate being in the receiving end of one.

"He must have hidden it very well to avoid detection." I smiled brightly. "Cunning bugger! Let's hope Skeeter doesn't make that connection."

Hunt let out a guttural growl, and moved to stand up, but his partner grabbed his arm. "Easy…" Tyler said in soothing tones, pushing Hunt back into the chair. Then he turned his gaze back to me, frowning. "I think this might be easier if we had a look at your memories, Mr Potter. What do you say?"

I'll be honest, the precise thought running through my head was _Oh shit_. I tensed up, considering my options swiftly. It was irrelevant.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Dumbledore said softly. Hunt's head turned so fast he must have got whiplash.

"What do you mean, 'not necessary'?!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and Hunt flinched. I took a moment to enjoy watching him squirm. It was nice to see that I wasn't the only one a little intimidated by the old wizard.

"Memories are not one hundred percent reliable, Auror Hunt. I think I can speak with some authority when I say that Harry's memories are unlikely to be definitive proof of anything. And of course, as his Headmaster I can – indeed, I _am_ – refusing to grant permission."

Hunt looked at Tyler. Tyler looked at Hunt. Tyler shrugged. It was obvious that, no matter what their personal skill, dedication or simple brutality, they were not willing to risk antagonising Albus Dumbledore over a case that had been pretty well wrapped up for them. Nevertheless, Hunt could not resist glowering at me as they left, empty handed.

I gave him a jaunty wave.

Dumbledore was watching me, and it was pretty uncomfortable, I don't mind telling you. I appreciated him stepping in, of course, but I had no idea what he would want in return. I mean, he probably knew what had happened down there. For all I knew, he spent his free time squawking in conversation with the bloody phoenix. However, he simply smiled at me.

"Thank you for your time, Harry. I will not detain you any longer."

I took the hint, and shoved off, not a moment too soon as far as I was concerned. Besides…I wanted to see if Skeeter _did _know about Lockhart's toothpaste. If she didn't…

I rubbed my hands in glee as I thought about all the trouble I could get Hunt and Tyler into.


End file.
